


The Lure of the Moon

by miss_aphelion



Series: Beacon Hills Mysteries [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:38:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_aphelion/pseuds/miss_aphelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hasn't come home. The Sheriff and Stiles have an agreement: Stiles is home before midnight every night, and he doesn't have to haul Derek Hale back to jail. So he drives out to the Hale house to drag his wayward son home—only thing is, it's not there anymore. What little had been left of it is laid flat across its foundations, and in the middle of it all, half buried beneath old burned out drywall, is Stiles' Jeep. </p>
<p>The list of suspects is pretty much limitless, now that the Sheriff knows just what horrors his little town holds. And with the strange company his son has begun to keep, he hardly knows where to start, but Peter Hale, Chris Argent, and Alan Deaton make the top of the list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a general sort of disclaimer that this story is not going to be an exact replica of The Pull of the Tide and probably won't be staying as near to canon, because I don't want to disappoint anyone that thinks it is. This is also going to be lots of mystery elements and I'm going to follow the same basic structure, but whereas about 90% of Pull of the Tide was set after the action had already happened and was largely a character study, this story is going to be a bit more immediate, plot-driven and fast paced (well, hopefully, anyway!). You're still dropped right in the middle of it all, though, with the Sheriff's investigation well underway.
> 
> Also, to anyone that was following the previous story as it was written, I should warn you I don't think this one will be updating as quick. I have a lot going on right now, so I haven't had as much time to write, but I thought I should get this first part up to try and motivate myself!

The moon looks different than it used to. 

It's a strange thing to distrust, but the feeling is there all the same. It seems to hold an influence over this little world like nothing else, as though all those myths people have spun around it aren't so crazy after all. 

It paints the wreckage of the Hale mansion with a strange otherworldly glow, and glints off the edges of his gun bright enough to blind. It catches on Peter Hale's wide, white grin, like that's where it belongs. 

"I'm only going to ask you one more time. Where is my son?" the Sheriff asks, pressing the gun deep into the hollow of Peter's throat. Stiles has told him more than he ever wanted to know about the effects of aconite poisoning on werewolves, so he knows just how messy this night could become. 

Peter must know it too, but he's fearless in that way the insane so often are. He seems to find the situation more amusing than anything else. 

"You know, I'm starting to understand where Stiles gets his fire from," Peter says. "You always seemed so dull, chugging along in your little patrol car, oblivious to everything. But maybe you're not so useless after all. I mean, you're on the completely wrong track, but I like your initiative."

"Your house has collapsed in on itself and half crushed my son's Jeep, and he's _nowhere to be found_ ," he snaps. "If you think I'm going to stand here and waste time—" 

"I do think you are, because that's what you're doing," Peter says, his tone as pleasant as if they've just crossed paths at a dinner party, instead of in the middle of the night amidst the ruins of his family's house. "I can't help you find Stiles. Do you see how easy this would be, if you actually listened when I answered your questions?"

"And I'm just supposed to trust you?" the Sheriff asks. 

"I would never harm Stiles," Peter says. "He's probably one of the very few people in this world that I might even be persuaded to go out of my way to protect. He's certainly the only person I have ever _asked_ to join my pack." 

The Sheriff's fingers tighten around his gun as he feels a sick dread seep down into his heart. "If you've bitten him—" 

"If you'd paid more attention in Werewolf 101, you'd know I can't turn him anymore," Peter says dismissively. "He said he didn't want it, anyway, though he wasn't telling me the truth. I think that just makes the refusal that much more intriguing, don't you? If he really didn't want it, that would be one thing. Strange, but understandable. But to want it and give it up? That's something else entirely." 

"You don't know anything about my son," the Sheriff says, though his relief that his son had chosen to stay as he was is short-lived in the face of having no idea where he is now. 

"On the contrary, I've held his life in my hands, so I know him better than most. Because that's when you can see someone for who they really are. Some people are brave, some are ruthless or afraid. Stiles is _curious_ \--so much so that he came back to face me when I was half out of my mind, and could have torn him in two. We had a door between us at the time, but doors were nothing to me then." 

The Sheriff calls on years of experience dealing with criminals trying to get a rise out of him, and that's the only thing that reigns him in. His finger aches to tighten. "There's more to Stiles than that," he says. "So if that's all you got out of it, you're missing more than you think." 

"There is a lot I've yet to learn, that's true. Which probably makes you wonder, why it is that I didn't bite him anyway," Peter says. "Scott ran from me, so I chased him down. But Stiles…when I had him in my grasp, he didn't run. He stood right there in front of me; utterly terrified, to be sure, but still he didn't run. I couldn't force him after that, because he wasn't prey any longer. For better or worse, he was already one of us." 

Peter leans forward, seemingly unconcerned with the muzzle held to his throat. Maybe that was happened when you were near invincible—it turned you fearless. 

"And no one can change that, Sheriff," Peter tells him. "Not even you." 

"That's close enough," the Sheriff warns. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because I want you to understand that I would never hurt him," Peter says smoothly. 

"Try harder, because I'm not there yet," the Sheriff says. 

"Okay, how about this? It's not the werewolves you need to be worried about. We didn't do this. We can't huff and puff and blow a house down anywhere outside a nursery rhyme. This was done by something far more powerful than any of us." 

"I said that's close enough," the Sheriff snaps, when Peter inches closer. "These bullets will stop even you, so don't tempt me." 

"Ah yes, _wolfsbane_ ," Peter says. "Let me give you a little advice for free—it's not the weapon that matters. Hunters put entirely too much stock in wolfsbane, don't you think? They seem to forget that it works as well on humans as it does on us. It'll wind its way into your heart and stop it in its tracks; and it doesn't even leave a trace. It's such a clever little plant." 

"I'm more interested in what it would do to you," the Sheriff says. 

"It would be much slower with me," Peter says easily. "I could hold on for hours, I might even crawl back up out of the ground. I've done it before. I'm not saying it's not _useful_ , it's just it all depends on how you use it. It reminds me of Stiles, actually, because it counts on being underestimated. Looks completely harmless, but it's always planning ahead."

"You think I'm going to stand for you talking about him like that?" the Sheriff asks. 

"It was a compliment," Peter says defensively. 

"That's what concerns me," the Sheriff says. "Stay away from him." 

"Not an easy task," Peter says wryly, "considering no one knows where to find him. He could be six feet beneath where you stand, and you might never know it." 

"If I've found out you've done anything, if I even suspect that you've harmed him, I will hunt you down like the dog you are," the Sheriff snaps. 

"Dog jokes," Peter says pleasantly. "Like father, like son. I have to say, you don't quite have his comedic timing." 

"It wasn't meant to make you laugh," the Sheriff assures him.

"Have you considered yet, that perhaps Stiles doesn't wish to be found?" Peter asks. "I find it rather telling that my nephew has disappeared at the same time." 

"He wouldn't just leave without a reason," the Sheriff insists. 

"No, of course he wouldn't, but that's why you should be wary," Peter says. "You might not want to go barreling in, when you don't know what that reason may be." 

"I'll keep that in mind," the Sheriff says. 

"See that you do," Peter says. "Are we done here?" 

"We're done," the Sheriff snaps. 

"Good. Because now that we have that all cleared up," Peter says. "There's just one more thing." 

Peter reaches up, lightening quick, and twists the gun from his hand. He reaches for his throat with his free hand, and slams him against a tree. He drops the gun dismissively and then presses up against him, leaning in close enough the Sheriff can feel his breath ghosting across his ear. 

"The only thing keeping me from ripping out your throat is my respect for Stiles, and because I don't want bloodstains on my new coat," Peter whispers, his tone part promise, and part caress. "The next time you aim that gun at me, you better be prepared to use it." 

Peter lets go as quickly as he'd grabbed him and the Sheriff collapses to the ground. He grabs for his gun as he gets back on his feet, but Peter is already out of sight; the moonlight slants partway through the trees like an accomplice, casting strange shadows and covering his retreat.


	2. Stiles and Derek 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is the start of the alternating storyline! Derek and Stiles are together this time around, but they're both going to be keeping their own secrets—from each other, and from you. Also, yeah, I'm thinking there's probably going to be constant cliff-hangers till the end. So. Sorry about that. I blame the structure of the story. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that already commented/kudos-ed. Peter is a favorite of mine (I have such a soft spot for the eloquent twisted ones), and I missed not having him in the previous story, so I thought he'd be the best way to start this one. The kids are still going to make their appearances, but I wanted the spotlight on the adults this time around.

He wakes up slowly; the blurred world around him shifting in and out of focus, a strange _drip drip drip_ sound knocking against his head at an alarming volume. Derek's face swims into vision, upside down as he leans over him with a frown. 

"Uh, hi?" Stiles says. 

Derek's frown deepens. "You passed out," he says, and he somehow makes it sound like an accusation. 

Stiles starts to sit up and Derek pulls him back. That's when he realizes he's got his head cradled in his lap, which might be amusing if not for the pounding headache and that weird dripping sound. He glances to the side and runs his eyes along the cobbled stone walls, tracking the water damage and moss. 

"Are we seriously in a dungeon?" he asks. 

"No," Derek says wryly, his frown flickering up slightly to normal person heights, which Stiles counts as a win. "We're safe here."

"Safe," Stiles begins, and then it all comes rushing back. He scrambles out of Derek's hold, eyes wide, only to fall back against the wall as a wave of dizziness keeps him off his feet. "Oh god. Where are the others?"

"I told them to run," Derek assures him. "I think they got out before the house came down on top of us." 

Stiles presses his eyes shut, and he can see the golden eyes that had surrounded the house—Erica, Isaac and Boyd. He remembers them turning to leave at one particularly ear-shattering howl from Derek. "Yeah, yeah, they got out," Stiles says in relief. "But how did we?" 

He glances over at Derek then, and goes still when he sees that Derek's hands and neck are covered with blood. "Is that—?" 

"It's not mine," Derek says. "It's not yours, either." 

"Right," Stiles says. "Did you kill them? Not that I'd be morally outraged or something, cause, bad guys, I'd just like to know for logistical reasons. Like, exactly how many bodies do I have to help you bury?" 

"I didn't kill them yet," Derek says. "You got hurt, I had to get you out first." 

"Yet?" Stiles echoes. 

Derek's eyes flicker red. "They hurt you," he says. "You think I'll let that pass?" 

Stiles doesn't answer, looking instead down at his arm, which has been wrapped in a thin white material. It was so dark when their attackers came in, but he remembers feeling the blade slice across his forearm. It had hardly been more than a scratch—he doesn't know why it dropped him so fast. 

"Did you bandage me up with your wife-beater?" Stiles asks. "Because that's strangely sweet. You know, ignoring the part that the article of clothing in question is named after spousal abuse." 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. 

"Do you know how that originated? It was in the 1960s, if you can believe it. It was coined after the stereotypical male that would come home and pull off his over-shirt, get drunk, and smack around the missus. Some people credit Stanley Kowalski as the first." 

The wound is burning now that he's paying attention to it, itching beneath the makeshift bandage. Stiles turns his mind away from it, taking refuge in his babble. "Isn't it weird the things that stay in common use? I mean we've switched 'Eskimo' to 'Inuit' and 'french fries' to 'freedom fries,' but wife-beater is still accepted as every day slang." 

"Stiles, focus," Derek snaps, moving to kneel in front of him. 

"This is my focused," Stiles says, glancing up at him. "It's like you don't know me at all." 

"Do you know who those men were?" Derek demands. 

"Me?" Stiles asks. "I thought they were friends of yours." 

"I've never seen them before," Derek says. "They weren't wolves." 

"Hunters?" Stiles guesses. 

"Maybe," Derek says, but his gaze keeps going distractedly down the hall. 

"We need to contact the others," Stiles says. "And god, oh, god, what time is it? My dad's going to kill me. I'm going to be grounded until I'm thirty." 

"We can't," Derek says. "We're safe for now. We can't risk moving out into the open with you hurt, not when we don't know who's after us. And the less the others know, the safer they'll be. You need to rest." 

"Then my dad's going to kill _you_ ," Stiles says. 

"I'll add him to the list," Derek says. 

"I don't think you're taking this seriously enough," Stiles says. "My dad's a cop, finding people is kind of his job. And he's good at it. Now that he has all the facts, he's going to put them together right." 

"He's not going to find us here," Derek assures him. "This is the last place anyone would look." 

"Are we where I think we are?" Stiles asks. "Because I'm pretty sure that's the first place he'd look." 

"He's not going to find us, and he'll be safer if he doesn't," Derek insists. "I'm going to check and make sure the exits are blocked. I want you to stay here, can you do that for me?" 

"Why are you talking to me like I'm a child?" Stiles demands. 

"Because you're prone to wandering off even when you're not concussed," Derek says. 

"I'm not concussed," Stiles says. "Probably. I'm like 87 percent sure of that." 

"Just stay put," Derek snaps, pulling off his leather jacket and then unceremoniously forcing Stiles into it. 

"Hey, careful," Stiles cries. "You can't even do chivalry right, can you? You have to dislocate my shoulder while you force me into your creepy blood-stained jacket. That's so you. I need a new boyfriend." 

"I'll be right back," Derek says levelly, apparently having tuned out Stiles' entire rant. 

Stiles glares after him for a moment, before reaching up to scratch at the wound on his arm. It feels like something is creeping around underneath his skin, pressing up to crawl out. He pulls the too-large jacket sleeve up to his elbow and then peels back the bandage. 

It's still only a scratch, and by itself looks almost harmless. Just a thin red line from his wrist curled around to the other side of his arm. The only trouble is that now there are thick black lines twisting out from it, wrapped around his arm like a vine, pulsing from beneath his skin. 

So not a concussion then.


	3. Melissa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really probably shouldn't be posting this whilst sleep deprived, but I won't have a chance tomorrow and wanted to have it up before the weekend. Thanks to everyone for the reviews/comments! As for the questions, my lips are sealed. This mystery is going to unravel a bit differently than the last one though! You'll be getting answers at the same time they do this time around.

Melissa takes one look at him and goes pale, moving to lean against the doorjamb. It's the kind of reaction he usually only gets when he knocks on a door in uniform, but he knows what this looks like. His jeans are caked with mud and their lives aren't what they used to be. 

It used to be if he showed up at Melissa's door at four in the morning, it was to drag Scott and Stiles home from some party or another. These days his presence brings a very different brand of trouble. 

"Scott?" she asks. 

"He's actually who I came to see," he says. "He's not here?" 

Melissa shakes her head, looking exhausted. She's still wearing her scrubs, probably just off the night shift. "He was gone when I got home," she says. "He hasn't been answering his phone. I figured he was with Stiles. What have they gotten into now?" 

"I wish I knew," the Sheriff says. "The Hale house is destroyed, and Stiles and Derek are missing. When did you last hear from Scott?" 

"About an hour ago," she says, frowning. "Now that I think about it, he was acting a bit odd. He never just calls to check in when I'm at work." 

"Mind if I come in?" the Sheriff asks. "I'd like to check his room, if that's alright with you." 

Melissa nods and moves aside. "Of course," she says, sounding obliging and slightly guilty. Things have been strained between them since he's learned she's known the truth a lot longer than him. 

Part of him wants to tell her it's fine, that he understands why she kept their secrets, but he's not sure it would be the truth. He's forgiven Stiles because the kid's always getting in over his head trying to help out his friends, and because he'd forgive Stiles anything. Melissa is supposed to know better. 

He moves down the hall to Scott's room, a path he remembers from years ago—from all those abortive sleepovers where Stiles had worked himself into a panic attack. He'd come in and find Melissa kneeling in front of him helping him breathe in a paper bag, while Scott slept like the dead. 

Scott's room has changed a lot since then. No more posters of bizarre video games, no more action figures lined on the shelves. 

No overt signs that it's a werewolf that lives here. 

The Sheriff sits at Scott's computer and wakes it up, glaring when a password request appears. "Do you know the password?" he asks. 

Melissa sighs. "It's Allison," she says. 

The Sheriff types it in and the screen unlocks. There's a chat window still open, blinking as it waits for the conversation to pick back up. The first message is from someone calling themselves 'catwoman96.' 

It says: headqrters under atack, we're on the run. Don know wht happend to bossman and batman, went bck but cnt find them. meet us @ the cave.

Scott's reply was succinct: on the way

"Do you know what the cave is?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Bossman and Batman?" 

"Derek and Stiles," the Sheriff says grimly. 

Melissa bites her lip and nods. "Scott will find them," she says. 

The Sheriff pushes back from the desk angrily. "Is that supposed to reassure me?" he asks. 

"That's not fair," Melissa says. 

"Scott will heal from a bullet wound, from a knife wound, from almost anything, actually," he says. "But my son won't. So forgive me if I don't want to leave this to Scott." 

"I know you're still angry with me," Melissa starts. 

He pushes past her, heading towards the door. "Now isn't the time for this," he says. 

"I just want you to understand," she says, latching onto his arm. "I love my son more than anything, but we both know he doesn't ever think ahead. Scott needs Stiles. I let myself get talked into keeping their secrets because I was afraid that if you knew the truth, you'd take him away." 

The Sheriff presses his eyes shut, trying not to wonder if he would have done the same, had their places been reversed. He's not in a forgiving mood. "Maybe I should have," he says. "Things could go back the way they were. No more danger, no more lies." 

"You think the lying started with the werewolves?" Melissa asks quietly, releasing his arm. "Stiles has been lying to all of us for years. He'd put on a show for us, playing make-believe that everything was okay. I bought into it for years. But he's different now, he's become grounded. He's grown up. They've both grown up. And we can't protect them anymore, at least not in the ways we'd like to." 

"I can try," the Sheriff says. He's already almost lost Stiles once, and he'd made promises to himself then that this wouldn't happen again. He's been over confident in his ability to keep him safe, and it's not a mistake he plans to make a third time. He's not naïve, not with his job. He knows there are always dangers, every time you let your child walk out the front door. 

But there were no parenting self-help books for the kinds of problems his kid had. He's on his own.

"You think I wasn't terrified at first?" Melissa asks. "I was scared out of my mind. I was scared of Scott, I was scared for Scott, I was scared of shadows. Of course I would change it if I could, but I can't, and now that I understand—well, I couldn't be prouder of Scott. Of Stiles. Of all of them." 

"They have no idea what they're doing," he snaps. "They're messing with things they don't understand." 

"Maybe," she agrees. "But they must be doing something right." 

The Sheriff knows that she's right. Stiles and the others have been solving his cases for him this last two years, quicker, he suspects, than he could have himself even had he known all the facts. Stiles would make an amazing detective, but it's still his job to make sure he lives long enough to get the chance. 

"I have to get back to the search," he says, and heads towards her front door. "Let me know if you hear from Scott." 

"Yes, of course," she says, scrubbing a hand down her face and then crossing her arms. Staring at the wall instead of at him. 

He turns away, unable to finish this now. He'll sit down and talk this through with her when Stiles is safe, when he's not so focused on getting him back that he might say something he regrets. 

He's just reaching for the door when his phone starts to ring. He drags it out and answers gruffly. He listens carefully and begins to frown as his deputy relays a message to him, before quickly hanging up the call. He doesn't know if this is going to bring him answers, or make things even more complicated than they already are. 

"What? What is it?" Melissa asks anxiously. "Is it Scott? Stiles?" 

"No. It's Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore," he tells her, still not quite sure what to make of it. "It seems they've just gotten themselves arrested."


	4. Stiles and Derek 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd be able to keep updating this quickly, because I have like, six gazillion other things I'm supposed to be doing with my time. But this story has kind of taken over my mind, and is demanding to be written. No small part of that is due to all the thoughtful and kind comments you guys have been leaving, which never fail to have me rethinking things in all the best ways.

Stiles drags the bandage back over his wound when he hears Derek return. "Everything good?" Stiles asks, not quite meeting his eyes. 

He needs time to work out what's wrong with him, and that's going to be too hard to do with a clingy alpha stuck to his side. Derek has gone overprotective enough as it is, and it's not like he can do something normal like show up at the emergency room—because this obviously isn't natural. 

He's pretty sure a hospital visit would only end with him getting quarantined by the CDC and/or dissected somewhere in Roswell. 

"We're good," Derek says. "The exits had already been reinforced. Laura used to stay here when she'd come to check on Peter." 

"What is with you Hales and the creepy venues?" Stiles asks. "Have you never heard of the _Best Western_?" 

"We like to be somewhere we're protected," Derek says. "Somewhere defensible." 

"That explanation makes sense," Stiles says agreeably. "Your choices in location don't."

Derek starts to answer when an angry cry echoes across the walls. Derek goes still, looking guilty, but not overly surprised.

"I thought you checked the exits," Stiles says, swallowing hard. "Which means we're not alone down here, are we?" 

Derek's lips press into a grim line. "You know how you asked if I killed anyone, and I said not yet?" he asks. "Well, that's because it's only a matter of time. One of them is already mostly dead." 

"Mostly dead," Stiles repeats dryly. "Meaning?" 

"Meaning all this blood had to have come from somewhere," Derek snaps. "I tied her up and locked her in one of the rooms." 

"And you weren't going to tell me?" Stiles demands, tugging the sleeve the rest of the way down as he scrambles to his feet. 

"There's nothing that can save her, she's lost too much blood," Derek insists. "There was no reason for you to have to see it. I was going to just put her out of her misery, except she might talk. But to be honest, I didn't think she was going to wake back up." 

"Oh my god," Stiles says, moving past him down the hall, towards the sound of the voice. "This is not okay."

Derek follows him, grabbing his arm to lead him to the correct door. He clicks the lock open and Stiles wonders why all the doors here lock from the outside. He hopes it's a werewolf thing, and not specifically intended as a useful place to stash half-dead hostages thing. 

Stiles pushes past Derek, and his eyes go to the woman in the corner of the room. She looks a little younger than Derek, but older than him. She's wearing jeans with Reebok sneakers and a long sleeve blue shirt that's been torn all to shreds. She looks like a college student, except that she's covered in blood along her entire right side, from the tip of her ponytail to the sole of her shoe. She's alert though, pressed up against the back wall with her feet thrown carelessly out in front of her, appearing almost bored.

"She doesn't look mostly dead to me," Stiles says. "Maybe a bit like the undead, though." 

"That's not possible," Derek growls, moving in front of him. "I ripped into her in full alpha form." 

She smirks, leaning her head casually against the wall, her bound hands hanging loosely between her legs. "What?" she asks wryly. "You mean that little scratch you gave me?" 

Stiles' eyes go to the tears in her shirt, caked with blood but with nothing but unmarked skin underneath. "You'd know if she was a werewolf, right?" 

"Yes," Derek says. "Anyway, the way I'd clawed her, even a werewolf would still be healing. I don't know what she is." 

Stiles turns to look at her. "Okay," he says. "So what are you?" 

"You know what I am," she says, and her voice is suddenly different, as though she's just switched frequencies. The sound of it seems to echo in his bones, pulling him towards her though his body doesn't move. "You can see me, can't you, for what I really am?" 

"Stiles?" Derek shouts. 

Stiles can hear him calling, but only distantly, because it's like he's caught in a storm and she's the eye. She grins slowly, her lips not moving though he can still hear her voice bouncing around his mind. It's a little like that tiny electric shock you get sometimes when plugging something in—brushing against a power that could tear you apart if it wasn't stuck in its own circuit. 

"Stiles!" Derek yells, reaching out and shaking him, before pulling him back towards the door. Stiles sucks in a startled breath and then shakes his head violently, dragging his gaze away from her. "What just happened?" 

"What?" Stiles asks, cautiously starting to look back at her. Derek catches his chin and turns his gaze back to him. 

"Are you okay?" Derek asks. 

"You didn't feel that?" Stiles asks, and Derek frowns, shaking his head like he's humoring him. 

"Do you know what she is?" Derek asks. 

"No," he says, frowning. "But at least we know she's not possessed, they can't heal damage done to the bodies they're in. It's why they change hosts so often." 

"Then what the hell is she?" Derek demands. 

"No idea," Stiles says. "I can't remember any super-healing human-looking things that go bump in the night from the bestiary. The Jackalope's milk can supposedly cure all ills, but I don't suppose she has one of those just laying around." 

"Okay. Stay here. I'll talk to her," Derek says, his claws forming easily as he turns to face her, though the rest of him stays human. 

"You can't hurt me," she says. "Haven't I proven that?" 

"Actually, I can," Derek says. "You just might get better, but that only means I have to start again." 

"True," she agrees. "But I'm also the only one that can help you, so you might want to play nice." 

"You came to kill us," Derek snaps. 

"That wasn't my choice," she says. "And you can try to hurt me all you like, but it won't get you anywhere. You have no idea what I'm capable of." 

"If you're so powerful, why haven't you escaped?" Stiles asks, stepping around Derek to get closer, though he tries to avoid looking right into her eyes. "Because I'll tell you what I think: I don't think you can. I think it took all your strength to heal yourself. Which makes me wonder, would you have the strength to do it again?" 

"I can test that theory for you, if you'd like," Derek offers, glaring at her. 

"How about I test a little theory of my own?" she asks, and then reaches out with her bound hands before Stiles can stop her, and grabs his arm. Her fingernails dig into his infected forearm, and she uses the grip to tug him closer. 

The sensation reaches him distantly at first, this vague little burn, and then he's screaming. Stiles has been literally ripped open before, but that pain was nothing next to this. This is like his very being is being split down its seams. 

He falls half against her when she tugs again, his balance completely gone. He bites back a sob as another wave hits him, and as it does, he can feel something moving beneath the skin of his arm. 

"Release me, Stiles," she whispers in his ear, "and I can help you." 

Derek's arms latch around his waist, pulling him free and spinning them both towards the door. Stiles falls back against it, barely conscious of the feeling of the doorknob pressed into his hip. For a moment the entire world is tinted grey, and the thought occurs to him that Derek would look gorgeous in black and white. 

"Stiles? Stiles?" Derek snaps. "Stiles, answer me!" 

Stiles wants to but he can't speak, his mouth is dragging in air faster than he can get it back out. He can't even resist as Derek pushes up the sleeve of the leather jacket and peels back the bandage, cursing as he sees the mess his arm has become. The black lines are thicker, and he can feel them crawling further up. 

"Look at me, Stiles, I need you to breathe," Derek says, reaching up to frame his face and force him to meet his gaze. "Slowly, okay?" 

Stiles nods to show he can hear him, but there's another voice that reaches him in a language he doesn't know. The pain recedes back to tolerable levels and he goes limp in Derek's hold. "I'm fine," he says, forcing the words to form. "It's okay. I'm fine." 

"He's really really not," she laughs. 

Stiles feels Derek transfer his weight back to the door before he spins around to stalk towards her. "What have you done to him?" he demands. 

"Nothing worse than what was already done. But then he didn't tell you about that, did he?" she asks, her mouth stretching into a strange grin. "And now you'll be lucky if he survives the day."


	5. Jackson and Lydia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys continue to be awesome! Thanks so much for all your feedback. I'm not going to say how many of you are hitting close to the mark, but your guesses are always fun to read. Also, I apologize in advance if this part is a bit convoluted, I'm working on too much caffeine and too little sleep. But all should make sense in the end ( I hope )!

"So let me guess," the Sheriff says. "You two are on again?" 

They're sitting in the chairs across from him, almost unconsciously leaning towards each other so that they're nearly touching. Lydia has the same blasé air she'd brought with her the last time they were in this room together, but Jackson looks different. He looks calmer, which is kind of ridiculous considering the charges against them. 

"No comment?" he continues. "Well, where should we start then? How about how you were doing 60 in a 40 mile zone? No? Then maybe you'd like to discuss the box of explosive materials found in the backseat of your Porsche." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lydia says primly. "Those supplies were for Mr. Harris. He asked us to drive them to his house for him, for extra credit. Are you saying they could make some sort of incendiary if combined? Because I certainly had no idea. Jackson?"

"I thought it was just formaldehyde," Jackson says wryly. 

"So there you go," Lydia says. "A perfectly innocent misunderstanding." 

"You had enough raw ingredients for fifty Molotov cocktails," the Sheriff says. "Am I really supposed to buy this?" 

"Let's not exaggerate," Lydia says, looking down to examine a nail. "Twenty-five. Tops." 

The Sheriff slams their case file on the desk with more force than necessary, but it doesn't startle either of them. Jackson continues to steadily meet his gaze while Lydia continues to ignore it. "Stiles is missing," he snaps. "So you have about five minutes to convince me I should help you before I leave you in lock-up." 

Lydia finally glances up then, biting slightly at her lip before leaning across the desk. "We know about Stiles," she says. "What do you think we were doing? We were on our way to help when one of your deputies pulled us over, and decided to make it his personal mission in life to inconvenience us. He didn't even care that he made me cry." 

He misses the days when his kid's problems could be solved with hard candy. He doesn't know what could have happened to warrant the amount of explosives they were driving around with. "What do you know about what happened to Stiles?" he demands. 

"Not much," Jackson says. "McCall woke me up at three this morning, screeching about some sort of attack and that Stiles and Derek had disappeared. Apparently Stiles and Derek were having some illicit rendezvous at his family's brokedown palace. Derek has really lowered the bar on romance for the rest of us."

"Don't think that means I'm not expecting jewelry," Lydia interrupts dryly. 

The Sheriff glares at them. "Get to the point," he snaps. 

"Derek thought something was watching them, so he called in the Three Musketeers," Jackson says. "When things started to go all to hell as per usual, he ordered the Musketeers to run and they did, because they're lemmings like that. That was the last we heard from Derek." 

"Your metaphor doesn't make any sense," Lydia interjects distractedly. "Lemmings migrate in groups and won't deviate from the group even if it's likely they'll die, because they have no sense of self-preservation. So if they were lemmings they would have stayed." 

Lydia's tone is almost guileless, but he can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. She seems to always be thinking of a hundred things at once, and he could kind of see why Stiles had loved her all those years—but for all that their personalities are vastly different, he figures they're far too alike for it to ever have worked. 

Jackson shoots Lydia a glare. "Right. Whatever," he says. "Look, the point is they didn't see anything, because they ran like the losers they are." 

"And they're still running," Lydia says. "Without Stiles around someone had to start thinking things through. Luckily, they also have me. They wanted to go charging in everywhere demanding answers like little Liam Neesons. I wanted to try something with a little more subtlety."

"Subtle like a box full of explosives?" the Sheriff asks. 

"Those were just Plan B," Lydia says. "I wanted to talk to Harris. I know he's involved in this somehow. He has a sordid history as an informer for hunters, and a grudge against Stiles ever since you arrested him." 

"So you got the supplies from Harris?" he asks dubiously.

"Yes, I told you, it was extra credit," Lydia says.

"I heard what you told me. Now tell me the truth," the Sheriff snaps. 

"The truth isn't going to do you nearly as much good," Lydia says. "We're going to get off. That's already decided. As we speak, Jackson's father is on the phone with some judge or another and Harris is a better patsy than Derek ever was. We'll be out of here within the hour." 

"And I'm just supposed to let you get away with this?" he asks. 

"You let Harris off easy last time, when you really shouldn't have. I wouldn't advise doing it again," Lydia says. "He's been stalking Stiles for weeks." 

"So we decided to put a stop to it ourselves," Jackson says. "Before he caught on to the rest of us too." 

The Sheriff drags a hand over his face. "What were you going to do?" he asks. "Blow up his whole block?" 

"Nothing so dramatic as that," Lydia says. "We were merely going to question him politely. He adores us, because we come from families that have power he wants. We just dropped by his classroom first to pick up a few things, because you never know when you might need to be dramatic." 

"Yeah, and whoever was stupid enough to attack our pack is going to get what they deserve," Jackson snarls. 

"Then you don't know who it was?" the Sheriff demands. 

"No. We never got to question Harris, or we might have more to tell you," Lydia says. 

"Why do you even think Harris has anything to do with this?" the Sheriff demands. "By all accounts he didn't even know what a hunter was when he helped Kate Argent." 

"Stiles never told you?" Jackson asks wryly. "Harris could have about twenty counts of harassment against him already, except Stiles thought he deserved it. He was feeling guilty over losing you your job." 

"He wouldn't let us help him," Lydia agrees. "When I offered to get rid of Harris for him, he turned me down." 

The Sheriff rests his head in his hands. "Do I want to know what you mean by that?" he asks. 

"It's probably best if you don't," Lydia says. "But this is better, don't you think? It's almost kismet. You can get him on stealing from the school, illegal possession of explosives, and maybe even corruption of a minor if you're creative. We practically gift-wrapped him for you." 

"That doesn't answer my question," the Sheriff says. "Do you really think he has something to do with this, or is he just a convenient scapegoat? Because I’m not letting you railroad someone innocent." 

"I wouldn't waste any sympathy on him, Sheriff," Lydia says. "This is nothing he doesn't deserve. But if you don't believe me, I suggest you ask Harris about it yourself. He knows something, I guarantee it." 

He doesn't know why he had thought for years things would be less complicated if he could just figure out what was really going on with Stiles and his friends. In hindsight, it was so much easier when he was being lied to. 

"I'll do that," he says tightly, gathering up the file. "One more thing—do you know what 'the cave' is?" 

"Erica calls Derek's little back-up base the bat cave, in one of her sad little attempts to impress Stiles with her paltry knowledge of comics," Lydia says, scrunching up her face in distaste before giving a little half-shrug. 

"It's an abandoned rail station near the edge of town, leftover from the city's abortive attempt to try and convince Californians that public transportation is cool," Jackson explains. "You can't miss it. It's the worst secret base ever." 

"Thanks," the Sheriff says, as he gets to his feet. "Your parents are on the way, you'll be released into their custody when they arrive." 

"What are you going to do?" Jackson demands. 

"I'm going to find Harris," the Sheriff says. "And pretend half of this conversation never happened." 

"Which half is that?" Lydia asks slyly. 

"I'll let you know," the Sheriff says, as he pulls the door closed behind him.


	6. Stiles and Derek 3

Derek pushes him out of the room and still won't let him go even when the door is locked behind them. Stiles wants to shrug him off and pretend like he's fine, but he's not sure he has the energy it would take to lie. 

"Are you going to be okay alone for a few minutes?" Derek asks, his voice soft and low, like he's trying not to scare him. Stiles would be insulted if it didn't kind of work. 

"Where are you going?" Stiles asks, as Derek finally lets up a little on his grip, letting them have enough distance to be able to look at each other's eyes. Derek's are red, and it's just about all the answer he needs. "Oh, no! No. We're not killing her! In case you didn't know this about me, I'm kinda all talk!" 

"No you're not," Derek says calmly. "You helped me take out an Alpha and you fought off a possessed corpse on your own." 

"Firstly, I prefer zombie psychiatrist. It's catchier. Secondly, that was all in the heat of battle, and everyone knows that doesn't count!" Stiles protests. "We're not murdering anyone in cold blood." 

"No, we're not," Derek agrees. "You're staying right here." 

Derek turns to head back towards the door, and Stiles slips between, throwing his arms out to brace himself in the doorjamb. "No!" he snaps. "Even if you could kill her—" 

"Oh, I'll find a way," Derek promises darkly. 

"Even if you could," Stiles repeats tightly. "You're not going to. Because we're the good guys. I know it's inconvenient and all, but that means we can't just go around killing people willy nilly." 

"Willy nilly," Derek echoes in disbelief. "This thing came into my home to kill us, and now she's hurt you." 

"And you almost tore her to shreds, which was perfectly understandable, _at the time_ ," Stiles says. "But now we have to be the better people. Okay? That's the benefit of my dad knowing about all this, right? He can arrest her!" 

"She's not human, Stiles," Derek growls. "You think she'll just quietly serve her time?" 

"I don't know," Stiles says. "They'll probably let her out in the yard sometimes, so she can work out her aggression on a Stairmaster or something." 

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, sighing like he can't believe Stiles is serious. "Okay, then what do you suggest we do with her until it's safe to turn her over?" he demands. 

"We go back in there and talk to her," Stiles says. "She knows what's wrong with me."

"We can't trust her," Derek snarls. "And after whatever she did to you, I'm not letting you near her again." 

"I really wasn't big on the whole going back in there plan anyway, so I'm going to go ahead and let you think you're in charge," Stiles tells him. "But if we're not going to ask her, then we have to go to Deaton." 

Derek glares at him. "Deaton can't be trusted, either," he snaps. 

"But you don't trust anyone," Stiles protests. "We could do this all day." 

"I trust you," Derek says. 

"Then trust me!" Stiles says triumphantly. "And take me to Deaton." 

Derek frowns, stepping past Stiles with what Stiles inwardly refers to as the 'Lassie look.' Scott gets it sometimes too. One of these days, Stiles is going to slip up and say, 'what is it, boy?' and he just really hopes when he does it's with Scott, cause Derek would probably kill him. 

"I think the others are still out there," Derek says. 

"Others?" Stiles queries. "Meaning? The pack? The weird folk from the other side of the island? What?" 

"The others that attacked us," Derek snaps. "I don't think they know we're here." 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "That reminds me. Have we talked yet about how stupid it was to hide out in the basement of your creepy house?" 

"This isn't the basement," Derek says, heading towards the hall. 

"Ha! I knew it," Stiles says. "It's totally a dungeon, isn't it?" 

"It's a training room," Derek says reluctantly. "We would lock up the wolves too young to control themselves on the full moon and teach them restraint. Peter had a library here." 

"Okay, so yeah, I'm sorry to tell you, this is totally a dungeon," Stiles says. "And of course Peter decided to make it a library, what the hell?" 

"He thought it was peaceful down here," Derek says, almost defensive in a way he hasn't been about Peter since before Derek found out about his little killing spree.

Stiles is all about family, and he'd do anything for his dad, or for his pack. So he understands why Derek still keeps Peter around, even if none of the rest of them do. But it's moments like this when Stiles remember just what a special brand of crazy Peter is. "I'm not even going to mock that," he says. "It's been a long night, and it's so easy it's hardly worth it." 

"I appreciate that," Derek says. "Now, if we're going to leave, we're going to have to make a run for it. They'll be waiting." 

"Run for it, check," Stiles says. "That's kind of my default plan of action anyway, so I’m good." 

"You look like you're about to fall over," Derek tells him. 

"You're not carrying me like I’m Scarlett O'Hara," Stiles says instantly. "I'm very secure in my masculinity, but I draw the line at the bridal carry." 

Derek just stares him down, like he expects him to change his mind. 

"I'm fine to run," Stiles insists. 

"I'm throwing you over my shoulder if you can't keep up," Derek tells him. 

"So more Tarzan than Rhett Butler, that's good to know," Stiles says. 

Derek just ushers Stiles ahead of him with a roll of his eyes, which Stiles counts as a win. At least he's gotten Derek's mind off the infection creeping up his arm, though he can't quite forget it himself. He can feel it twisting around him like a living thing, and he steels himself, trying to get his focus before he really does end up fainting into Derek's arms in some kind of swoon. 

Cause when this was all over, he'd never live that down. 

"Stiles!" Derek snaps. 

Stiles stops, glancing back to see Derek has stopped at the edge of the stone floor. There's only a few feet of compact dirt hall left until the door. "What's wrong?" 

"Come back here," Derek tells him. 

Stiles steps back over to him and Derek latches onto his wrist the moment he's close enough, dragging him a few feet further from the exit. "What?" Stiles demands. "What's wrong?" 

"Mountain ash," Derek says in frustration. "I can't go any further than this." 

Stiles eyes trail down to the vice-like grip Derek has on his arm. So apparently Derek still has some trust issues when it comes to Stiles, too. Not that Stiles could really blame him. If Derek had mentioned he was getting stopped by mountain ash, Stiles might not have been so quick to walk back onto his side of the barrier. 

Because he knows Derek's not letting him leave here alone now.

"Crap," he says. He glances down at the cobblestone floor, but doesn't see any ash. He looks up. "It's got to be above us," he says. "I could—" 

"No," Derek interrupts. "The others are still out there, I can hear them now. They'd take you out the moment you're in the open." 

Derek tugs him back into the main room by a tight grip on his last good arm, and then closes and bolts the door leading to the hall. "This changes things," he says, sounding uncertain. 

"Well, yeah. It means you're trapped here," Stiles says. "It kinda sucks." 

"It's not just that," Derek says. "You and Deaton are the only ones I've ever known that could use mountain ash. It's not a usual talent, and hunters don't approve of magic." 

"Really?" Stiles asks. 

"Haven't you ever wondered why hunters don't use mountain ash?" Derek demands. 

"I just figured they preferred bullets," Stiles says. "You know, all offense, no defense." 

"It's because they can't, Stiles," Derek says. "And wouldn't, even if they could."

"So it isn't hunters then?" Stiles asks. "Because this has hunters written all over it. This is like Gerard 2.0." 

"Well, Gerard certainly never had a problem using the supernatural for his own ends, so that could very well be the case," Derek says. 

"Wait, what?" Stiles asks. "Isn't he dead? I'm pretty sure he's dead. I imagined him melting into a little puddle of black goo like the wicked witch of the west." 

"I don't think we're that lucky, but I didn't mean that I thought this was Gerard," Derek assures him. "Just that if it is hunters, they're not playing by their own rules." 

"Right. Great. So let's call Scott and—" Stiles starts. 

"Your phone is dead," Derek interrupts. "I already tried to call him when you were unconscious." 

Stiles pulls his phone out, and sure enough the phone is dead and there's a pretty wicked crack all through the screen. "Okay," he says. "But can't you just use the Twilight Bark?" 

Derek stares at him blankly. "What?" he asks levelly. 

"You know, like Pongo and Perdita," Stiles says. "Nevermind, that's not important. Just do your howl thing, summon the reinforcements." 

"We can't let anyone know we're here," Derek says. "Right now, I think those outside are just waiting around in case we come back. If they start searching for us, we're going to be outnumbered." 

"Well, I'm out of suggestions," Stiles says. "We either take our chances or sit here and wait for me to die." 

Derek rushes him, in that weirdly aggressively gentle way he's adopted since they started going out. He's pinned against the wall before he knows it, but it doesn't hurt. "That's not going to happen," Derek assures him. "There is another way." 

"Another way out?" Stiles asks. 

"No, another way to cure you," Derek says. "I could bite you." 

Stiles sighs, and lets himself go limp against the wall. "Derek, we've talked about this." 

"Things are different now," Derek says. "We don't have a choice." 

"I do have a choice," Stiles protests. "We've been through this, and you promised me that—" 

"I said I'd die before I'd turn you against your will," Derek interrupts. "I never said I'd let _you_ die before I'd do it." 

"That's semantics," Stiles says. "This is my decision, and maybe, you know, if things were different. I don't know, maybe someday, but—" 

"That's where you're wrong," Derek snarls. "It's not just your decision anymore. You're already pack, Stiles. That makes you my responsibility. And I can't protect you from this!" 

"Okay, look, it's okay," Stiles insists. "Bloody Mary in there said if I released her she would help me." 

"Stiles," Derek says wearily. "She can't be trusted." 

"I know, I'm not stupid, but she must know something, right, to use that as a bargaining chip? It must mean there's a cure," Stiles asks. "I just have to find it." 

"We can't wait," Derek insists. "If we wait too long you'll be too weak for the bite to take. I won't let that happen." 

"Derek, please," Stiles says. "That's—we don't even know what this is, if that would even work." 

"It's our best chance, it has to work," Derek says. "Would it be so horrible, Stiles? To be with me?" 

"I _am_ with you," Stiles says.

"Then _stay with me_ ," Derek growls. "Because I can't lose you too." 

"I just need some more time," Stiles says. "Please. I can figure this out." 

Derek lets him go, moving to pace in front of him. He stops a few feet away and clasps his hands behind his head, not turning to look back at Stiles. "You have until the sun starts to go down," he says after a moment. "And then I'm biting you, whether you want it or not." 

"You don't mean that," Stiles says, but his voice sounds shaken. It doesn't quite hit him until after he says it, that it may not be the truth. Derek turns around and his eyes are narrow as he stalks back towards him, leaning into his space without quite touching him. 

"You think I don't?" he asks softly, his quiet tone somehow carrying more weight than when he was yelling moments ago. "I don't care if you never forgive me. I don't care if you become omega, if you never look at me again. But you are going to live, one way or another. I promise you that." 

"Derek—" Stiles starts. 

"I will do whatever I have to, to save you," Derek says. 

"Okay," Stiles breathes. "But I've got the day. And then if I still haven't found a way to fix this, we'll…we'll do it your way."

Derek leans forward then, his head half resting on the cold stones as he wraps himself loosely around Stiles, some of the tension leaving him. He turns Stiles head until they're facing each other. "Thank you," he says. 

"Yeah," Stiles says shakily. "No problem." 

All he has to do is find a cure to whatever mysterious poison he's got running through his veins, without talking to the one person that says they can help, or to anyone else for that matter, and without stepping a foot outside of Derek's creepy underground bunker. 

It's a good thing he does his best work under pressure.


	7. Erica, Boyd and Isaac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry the updates slowed down a bit, I've been fighting off some kind of vicious cold all week. I'll try and have the next part finished up in the next few days, but with the way things have been going it might not be up until the weekend.

The door to the apartment is ajar. The Sheriff drags out his gun, slipping inside without announcing himself as he usually would. The living room has been torn apart, giving weight to his suspicions that he's not the first one to have come looking for Harris. 

There are couch cushions thrown everywhere, the books are piled haphazardly beneath their proper shelves. He half expects to see Harris laid out on the floor dead, but instead he sees three werewolves staring over at him in surprise. 

The Sheriff wishes he could be surprised himself, but he's really not. He sighs and holsters his gun, crossing his arms as he runs his gaze over them. Isaac is sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs and eating cheese puffs. Boyd is at the desk in the corner, one hand frozen halfway to a drawer, and Erica is kicked back on the couch, flipping through a stack of photos. 

Erica reacts first, getting to her feet and tossing him a sweet grin. It's a pretty decent attempt at an innocent expression, and he suspects it had been a lot more effective before she'd started wearing black lace and leather. 

"Sheriff," she says. "We were just—" 

"Getting rid of the evidence?" the Sheriff asks, running a hand through his hair. "Please tell me you didn't kill Harris." 

Isaac looks horrified, but Erica's sweet, fake smile doesn't even falter. "Of course not," she says. "We wouldn't do that. We were just walking by and saw the door open, and being the concerned citizens that we are, we dropped by to make sure everything was alright." 

"Enough with the games," he snaps. "Stiles is missing and I'm not in the mood. What the hell is going on here?" 

Boyd stands up, moving in front of Erica, whose eyes are flashing in irritation. "We got a call from Lydia, that Harris might know something about Stiles," he says calmly. "So we dropped by to check it out, but he wasn't here." 

"You realize this is breaking and entering?" the Sheriff asks. "Just because I know you're werewolves now, doesn't mean I can give you a free pass!" 

"We're only here to try and find out what happened to Stiles," Isaac says quietly. 

The Sheriff sighs, glancing towards him. "And I appreciate that," he says. "But it's my job to find him. You three can't keep doing stuff like this. Lydia and Jackson already got themselves arrested, way you're going you're not far behind."

"Our alpha is missing too," Erica says, slipping around Boyd. "We have to find him, just like you have to find Stiles. We aren't going to stop, so we might as well work together." 

"Erica," Boyd says quietly, tugging her back by the arm. 

"He has a right to know," she insists. "What do you say, Sheriff? I'll show you mine if you show me yours." 

"We'll show you ours anyway," Isaac says, hopping off the counter and snatching the stack of photos out of Erica's hands. "We found these in his desk. Looks like Lydia's hunch was right." 

The Sheriff grabs the photos, feeling his heart sink as he glances through them. They're almost all of Stiles; at home, at school, at the Hale house. There are pictures of him with Derek, the pack, and quite a lot of him outside the vet's office talking to Deaton. 

Then he reaches the last one in the stack. It's a photo of Stiles on the Lacrosse field, half-laughing as he looks over at something off frame, and there is a dark red X drawn across his face. 

It doesn't make any sense. The Sheriff knows Harris, and he's a vindictive little worm, but he's not a murderer. Or at least, not over something like hurt pride—so he'd hauled him in once or twice, no charges were pressed against him, he didn't even lose his job. It wasn't so bad it justified killing his kid in revenge. 

"Harris didn't take the pictures," Erica says, as though she knew what he was thinking. He looks up at her. "At least, not all of them. Harris hosts detention during Lacrosse practice. It's his favorite part of the day, and one of the boys would have noticed him out there with a camera." 

He nods as he presses the photos back into a single pile. "Sit down, all of you," he says. The three werewolves just stare at him, so he points to the couch. "It's not a request." 

Erica drops down in a huff, and Boyd and Isaac sit on either side of her. The Sheriff steps a little closer. "I want you to tell me everything you know, and I do mean everything," he says. "And maybe I'll be able to forget that I saw you here. Do you understand?" 

"It's a deal," Erica says. "But you might be disappointed about your end of it. We don't know much." 

"We just got a call from Derek, that something was wrong," Isaac says. "We went straight there, but the house was already surrounded. We tried to find an opening to get to them, but there wasn't one, and then Derek was yelling at us to get away and the house just—"

"The house just what?" the Sheriff asks. 

"It collapsed," Boyd says. "We think it was some kind of tornado." 

"Yes," Erica says wryly. "An invisible tornado that didn't strike anywhere else. But I suppose it's as good an explanation as any, because one minute it was there and it wasn't the next." 

"We wanted to get to them, but…" Isaac breaks off, his eyes skittering away guiltily. 

"There was nothing we could do," Erica says. "They were inside when it happened, and whoever attacked them has been watching the place ever since. We did manage to sneak back and do a quick check, though we couldn't get very close. Still, we would know if Derek and Stiles were trapped in the rubble. And if the bad guys had them I doubt they'd be sticking around, so they had to have gotten away." 

"The bad guys," the Sheriff echoes. "Any idea who they might be?" 

"No," Boyd answers. "But there's something off about them. I swear they saw us when we came back, but they didn't make a move against us. And we were outnumbered, I doubt we could have won against them in a fight." 

"And I'm assuming you checked the cave?" the Sheriff asks. "They're not hiding out there?" 

Erica looks up sharply, but then shakes her head. "It was the first place we looked." 

"Okay," the Sheriff says. "I'm gonna forget I saw you here just this once." 

"Thank you, Sheriff," Isaac says politely, and starts to get to his feet. 

The Sheriff holds out a hand. "One more thing," he says. "Where can I find Scott? He's not answering his cell." 

All three of them go stock still, taken off guard. He always knows he's on the right track, when he asks a question there's no lie prepared for. He knows they have been keeping his attention focused on Stiles, and he almost didn't even remember to ask about Scott himself. 

But he knows Scott, and there's no way he's sitting around doing nothing while Stiles is in trouble. It wasn't that long ago that they never got in trouble unless it was together. 

"Where is Scott?" he asks again, his voice enunciating sharply so there's no room to wiggle out of answering. 

Boyd leans back in defiance and Isaac won't meet his eyes, but Erica glances straight across at him, her lips half curled into another grin. "We called and told him what we found, so my guess is he's out hunting Harris," she tells him, leaning forward with a gleam in her eyes. "So there might not be much left of him, if you don't find him first."


	8. Stiles and Derek 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely feedback! I was able to get this part done before the weekend after all, and also, it has some answers for you! ~~Also more questions, but at least we're almost halfway there!~~

It takes Stiles longer than he thought it would to convince Derek to take him to Peter's library. Derek is weirdly reluctant about it considering it's pretty much their one chance at learning anything, and his unease sets Stiles on edge. So he's not quite sure what he's expecting to find. 

But it isn't what he finds. 

The room looks as much like a dungeon as the rest of the place, but there are old glass cabinets pressed one against another along one wall. They don't match—one is sage green, chipped and faded, while the one beside it is perfectly varnished oak, looking pristine except for the dust. They're both framed by a matching set of shorter, faded yellow glass cabinets. They are each of them filled with vials and powders, and he frowns as he sees a wolfsbane blossom incased in glass sitting on the middle shelf of the oak cabinet.

The wall across from it is just as mix-matched, with a varied set of open bookshelves, all of them crammed with so many books they are stacked half on top of each other. The back wall, however, is clear except for a large map of Beacon Hills Preserve rolled and pinned from ceiling to floor. It is covered in dark brown scribbling, notations drawn in where to best find certain plants and herbs. 

It's almost awesome enough that he can forget the pulsing in his arm, and those dark black tendrils that are trickling up his skin like sand through an hourglass. He knows he's not here to play, but the urge to drag his eyes across every page, to rifle through every single cabinet here, is still pretty hard to ignore. 

"Okay, so wow," Stiles says, glancing back at Derek. "I may actually never forgive you for not telling me about this place." 

Derek just looks wary, and almost as though he's afraid to come inside. He hovers anxiously in the doorway, watching Stiles, but keeping his eyes away from the walls. "There's nothing down here like the Bestiary," he explains softly. "All of our books like that were lost in the fire. These are the books my parents wouldn't let Peter keep in the house. I was told to stay away from them, that they're dangerous." 

"Books aren't dangerous," Stiles tells him, as he moves towards the shelves. He draws his good hand lazily across the spine of each book as he passes, taking note of their names. "Because books don't kill people, people kill people." 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. "Just see if there's something here that can help, and then we'll take it and go. This place gives me the creeps." 

Stiles pauses, before turning towards him in disbelief—Derek lives alternately in the burned out husk of a house that his family died in and an abandoned rail station. He didn't think Derek was capable of getting the creeps, he'd figured he was immune. 

He can feel it himself now that he's looking for it, though, a kind of low thrum of energy, along with the strangely persistent urge to leave. "It's warded," he realizes, walking to the center of the room. He stops beside a low table and turns slowly around to take it all in. He looks up and that's when he sees the symbols etched along the upper wall from one corner to the next, pulsing a dull gold. "Okay, you're forgiven. Peter, however, is not. Because he totally made sure no one that knew about this place would ever want to come back." 

"Why isn't it affecting you?" Derek asks warily. 

Stiles shrugs. "I'm not sure," he says, wincing as he feels a snap of pain blazing across his arm like an electrical shock. It doesn't hurt most of the time, it's more like an itch, but it keeps crawling around beneath his skin and raking itself across his nerves. "You can leave, if you need to. I'll be fine."

Derek steels himself, though one hand is still braced along the door. "I'm staying," he says firmly. "It's just…disconcerting." 

"Just think happy thoughts," Stiles tells him, as he glances back towards the bookshelves. Dust has built up all along the edges, and he scans them, looking for any break. He grins when he spots a small strip of clean wood. "Gotcha," he says, moving forward to pull the small leather bound book from the shelf. There is no title on the cover and no name along the side, so it's either a very old book that's been re-bound or an extremely expensive journal. 

"You found something?" Derek asks anxiously. He starts to step forward, but pulls back just as quickly, wincing as he drags himself back out of the room. 

"I don't know," Stiles says. "But it's the one Peter keeps coming back to reference." 

"Maybe we should take it and leave," Derek says, and his breathing hitches strangely. 

Stiles frowns and tosses the book on the table, before moving back to Derek in concern. "Hey, it's okay," he says. "Whatever you're feeling, it's not real. Look at me, okay? You're perfectly safe. There's nothing here that can harm you."

Derek meets his eyes and Stiles feels a snap of pressure, before he drags in a deep breath. The lights flicker and then go overly bright, and the glowing letters that had been written along the ceiling are washed away. 

"What did you just do?" Derek asks, staring at him in disbelief. 

"I think I just broke through his wards? Maybe?" Stiles says hesitantly, grabbing onto Derek's arm as the room starts to spin.

"You must have, because the urge to run screaming in the other direction is gone," Derek agrees, watching Stiles in concern. "Are you okay though? You look pale." 

Stiles nods even as he has to let Derek hold him steady. He feels dizzy, but only in a vague sort of way. The low buzzing that has been pressing at him since he walked into the library is gone, but when he moves to step back inside his legs give out. Derek catches him before he slips too far, pulling him tight against him by a firm grip around his waist. 

"Stiles," he says, sounding as panicked as Derek ever did. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"I'm okay," Stiles insists. "Really. I'm fine. I think that just took a bit out of me." 

Derek frowns. "You need to save your strength," he says. 

Stiles slips free and heads back to the book, letting out a breath when this time his body doesn't betray him. "I didn't even know I was doing that," he says. "But it's easier to think now. I'm alright." 

He opens the leather bound book, and written along the title page, in cursive so perfect it's almost surreal, it says 'Property of Peter Hale.' Stiles can feel Derek hovering at his shoulder, but he can't worry about him now. He blocks out everything and focuses on what's in front of him—it's the strange flipside of his ADHD, the way he can become so absorbed in something he loses sight of everything else. 

He flips to the next page and there is no table of contents, it just gets straight to the point. Beautiful miniature pictures of a number of rare plants are scattered across the pages, descriptions and uses listed below them. He goes further in and finds spells for wards and enchantments, protection and defense. 

"This is Peter's Grimoire," Stiles says in disbelief. "I know he's sort of evil, but this is brilliant." 

"He was a scholar, once, and a healer," Derek says quietly. "He wasn't always this way." 

"But he practiced magic," Stiles says in disbelief. "I didn't even know that werewolves could." 

"Its even rarer in us than it is in everyone else, but sometimes it happens. Peter wasn't supposed to use magic, though, it was forbidden to him by my parents," Derek tells him. "He obeyed as far as I know, at least until he was Alpha himself." 

"He may not have practiced, but he studied," Stiles says, flipping through the pages with wide eyes. "I wonder if this means he could use mountain ash, and if he did, would it still work on him or just other werewolves?" 

"Focus, Stiles," Derek snaps. 

"I'm trying, really," Stiles says. "But this is even better than the good books that Deaton keeps locked in his super secret cabinet." 

"You've been breaking into Deaton's cabinet?" Derek asks disapprovingly. 

"It was like there was a neon sign pointing to it, 'all the important stuff here,'" Stiles says. "Of course I broke in, but I wasn't impressed. This is something else entirely. This is like if Voldemort wrote a book kind of twisted. I don't know why I'm surprised, because props where it's due. I mean, he's freaking nuts, but he did totally bring himself back from the dead by implanting some kind of Horcrux in Lydia's brain."

"Stiles," Derek snaps. 

"What? I'm sorry!" Stiles says. "The best reference I have for magic is _Harry Potter_." 

Derek slaps a hand down on the table, leaning forward enough to catch Stiles' eyes. "You can go through the whole thing later," he says. "Right now we just need to know if there's anything in there about what's wrong with you." 

"I might have found something about that, actually. Atropa Belladonna," Stiles says, flipping back a few pages and then stilling as he reads through the description. "I mean, obviously, it's a well-known poison, but it looks like it works differently when the supernatural is involved, kind of like aconite. It says it can cause the same creepy lines of black goo."

"Does it say how to fix it?" Derek demands, but Stiles ignores him as he finishes reading through Peter's description. 

_Often thought to be used in 'flying ointments,'_ it's written, _though this is probably a bastardization of its actual use by well-meaning but ultimately ignorant scholars of the occult. Belladonna, in its correct use, can break down the barriers between the worlds of the living and the dead, so that those with power will become a door._

_Only use in extremely small doses, as too much will, regrettably, leave the subject vulnerable to the spirit-world and will almost always result in death._. 

"Oh my god," Stiles cries. "Why is he even cryptic in his own private journal? I'm becoming a door? What does that even mean?" 

"What does it say about a cure?" Derek demands. 

"It says, and I quote, 'the curse is the cure,'" Stiles snaps. "All the rest of them, they have actual cures listed. But no, the one I need, it's a riddle. I mean, maybe it's like the cure for wolfsbane poisoning? We need to burn it or whatever and I'll be mystically healed?" 

"That makes sense, I guess," Derek says. "So now we just need to get some." 

Stiles glares at the journal and Peter's stupidly perfect writing: _Not effective against werewolves…_ , it states near the end, which explains why there's so little information about it. Peter has never been personally in danger from it. 

"It's hardly going to be at the local health store, but maybe…" Stiles says, turning to look at the cabinets on the other side of the room. He glances across the vials and bottles, tugging one of the glass doors open when he spots a jar labeled Belladonna. He pulls it out, but it's entirely empty. "Yeah, I'm totally screwed." 

"The people that attacked us have to have more of it," Derek says resolutely. "I'll get it from them." 

"You're stuck here," Stiles protests. "And anyway, we can't be sure that they brought extra." 

"Of course they did," Derek snaps. "No one else got hit with it, only you, so they have to—" 

"Right, Derek, only me," Stiles says. "Because they weren't here for you, or the pack. They came here to kill me." 

"No," Derek says. "Why would they come after you? You haven't done anything but help us, so we're the bigger target for any hunters. In any case you're human, so if it's hunters they have their code." 

"Yeah, well, I'm no longer convinced hunters are completely behind this, and even if they are, we've seen how well they follow their own stupid codes," Stiles says. "You said so yourself." 

"Okay, so say they were here for you," Derek says reluctantly. "They'd still want to take out the rest of us, if they could." 

"Maybe, but this? This was only for me," Stiles says, and slides the journal over so that Derek can read Peter's last note. _Not effective against werewolves_ , he'd written. 

_But it's the only safe way to kill a witch._


	9. Harris

One of his deputies spots Harris' car at Davenport's Bar and Grill. Davenport's Bar and Grill has been more bar than grill ever since the proprietor lost his wife, and so the Sheriff hasn't been here for years. It wasn't the sort of place he'd want Stiles hanging out anymore. The lights are all half power, spaced far enough apart that they don't reach the corners. Smoke fills all the dark spaces in-between. 

Harris is sitting in the back booth, his head almost down on the table as he presses the heel of his palm against his temple. There are three empty beer bottles lined up haphazardly along the table's edge. He looks even worse than he had the last time the Sheriff had questioned him, but he doesn't look surprised when he looks up and spots him. 

He just grins wryly and takes another sip of his beer. "Sheriff," he greets. "Didn't think this was your sort of place." 

He sits down across from Harris, his own face set in stone. Sometimes he used to feel like two people—the Sheriff, and Stiles' dad. There used to be a third guy too, the husband, but he died a long time ago. It seems like some days the only way to cope is to disconnect from his job, but these last few months the lines have been irrevocably blurred. 

These days, being Stiles' father and being the Sheriff weren't such very different jobs. 

"Where is my son?" he demands coolly, 

"Ah, Stiles," Harris sneers, slamming his beer back down on the table. "What is so special about that kid, anyway? Could you tell me that?" 

"You've obviously had one too many," the Sheriff says, as he leans forward. "As such I'm gonna be real clear here, so there's no misunderstandings that end up getting someone hurt. You're going to tell me everything that you know, and then I'm going to do you a favor, and I'm going to arrest you." 

"How, exactly, is that a favor?" Harris asks. 

"Because at least you'll be safe in a cell. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and go with the theory that you don't have a clue what you're really into," the Sheriff says. "But you've managed to piss off some very powerful people. I'm not so modest that I don't count myself among them, so it should concern you when I say that I’m the least of your worries." 

Harris laughs, and the sound is kind of broken. "Well, I appreciate that," he says. "But I already know just how very screwed I am." 

"Then you better start talking," the Sheriff says. 

"Her name was Kate, right?" Harris asks, his eyes going distant. "That's what I read anyway. She looked older in the picture, but I could tell she hadn't changed. It's like—once it touches you, you can't shake it off again. It doesn't matter how hard you try." 

"I don't care how you screwed up your life," the Sheriff snaps. "Tell me where Stiles is." 

"If I were to make a guess, I'd say he's probably already dead," Harris tells him. 

The Sheriff reaches out and grabs Harris by the collar, dragging him half across the table. Harris lets out a surprised shout, but this isn't the sort of place where people will come running to help, and even if it were, it's the Sheriff they'd call. 

"You had better hope he's not," he hisses. "I'm just about out of patience, so you had better start talking sense before I decide to leave you to the wolves." 

Harris lets out a startled laugh, and it's all the confirmation that the Sheriff needs. "That's a very telling turn of phrase," he says. "I didn't think you knew." 

The Sheriff lets him go abruptly, and Harris drops back in his seat. "I wasn't sure you did either," he says. 

Harris straightens his collar, before pushing his glasses up a bit further on his nose. "I lied to myself about it a long time," he says. "I didn't want to believe. Because there's no turning back, once you do. Then they came calling, and it was all a bit harder to ignore." 

"Who are _they_?" the Sheriff demands. 

"I don't know," Harris shrugs. "Hunters, I guess? At least I think that's what they call themselves. They said they'd heard I'd helped out the Argents before, that I'd been attacked by an alpha and that they thought I'd want to help. But it wasn't exactly a request." 

"What did they want help with?" the Sheriff asks. "Were they after the pack?" 

"That's what I thought at first," Harris says. "And so I thought nothing of it, because they have it coming. Except the only one they ever wanted to know about was your son. Going after the weak link, I guess."

The Sheriff grips the edge of the table tightly, restraining himself from reaching out to grab Harris again. "And just what did you tell them?" 

"They had about twelve guns between the three of them, so I told them whatever the hell they wanted," Harris says blandly. "Mostly they just asked for his schedule. His classes, what time he had practice. They asked me to give him a detention, a few times. It wasn't hard to arrange, because Stiles never shuts up." 

"And you didn't ever wonder what they might do with that information?" the Sheriff demands. "You’re a teacher, you're supposed to protect those kids." 

"They're not _kids_ , not anymore, not really," Harris snaps. "I had to protect myself." 

The Sheriff glares at the man, resolving to have a long talk with Stiles just as soon as he gets him back safe. If Lydia had caught on that something was up with Harris, Stiles must have too. He'd thought they were past Stiles trying to protect him—but he just kept trying to do it anyway. 

Stiles didn't seem to get that the best way to protect him was to stay alive and whole himself. Because losing Stiles is the one thing the Sheriff is certain he won't survive. 

"If anything happens to Stiles," he says, his voice soft but hard as steel. "I'll—"

"You'll what?" Harris demands. "Sic the wolves on me? You won't. It's your job to protect me, whether you want to or not." 

"I wouldn't sic anyone on you," the Sheriff promises. "If he's got so much as a scratch when I find him I'll destroy you myself." 

"I'll be sure to remember that threat when I'm arranging my defense," Harris says. "Are you going to arrest me or not? Because if not I'd really like to get back to my beer." 

"We'll get to that, don't worry," he says. "But I said you were going to tell me everything first, and you haven't. What else did they want? Did you take those pictures of Stiles that I found in your apartment or did they?" 

Harris' smug veneer cracks slightly, and he leans back in the booth. "No," he says. "I didn't take them. One of the hunters gave them to me. He wanted me to identify pretty much everyone Stiles had ever spoken to, and tell him which ones I thought were wolves. I was only sure about Derek Hale, but I told them I suspected McCall, Reyes and Lahey as well."

"And Stiles?" the Sheriff demands. 

"I said I didn't think he was," Harris says. "He certainly hadn't gained any grace or a sudden penchant for leather. I thought they might back off after that, but they told me they already knew he wasn't a werewolf, and then not so subtly implied that very soon he wouldn't be anything at all." 

That doesn't make sense. The Sheriff had gone into this thinking he had the advantage this time: his son started hanging around with werewolves, his son started getting into dangerous situations—ergo werewolves were getting Stiles into dangerous situations. 

He'd been so sure Stiles was just collateral damage, the bystander in an attack against Derek, that it had never once occurred to him that things might be the other way around. 

"You want to know the strangest thing?" Harris asks. "I think they were scared of him. The werewolves didn't bother them. One of the hunters even wore a werewolf's tooth around his neck. So I kept wondering—why would they be frightened of a harmless sixteen year old boy?" 

The Sheriff stiffens, some kind of borrowed outrage tightening his spine at the mention of the careless way one of the hunters wore a tooth, and his own anger over his son being so dismissed. "And did you ever figure it out?" he demands. 

"No," Harris says. "The best I could come up with is maybe he's not so harmless after all."

The Sheriff frowns, but doesn't press this. "I'm going to need descriptions of the men," he says. 

"I've been cooperative, right?" Harris asks. "I've told you what you want to know. Now I want to know what I’m going to get for it." 

"What you're going to get?" the Sheriff asks slowly. 

"Yes, I want a deal," Harris says. "And trust me, you want to deal, because it's not like you could really charge me with anything if you try to take this to court." 

"Really?" the Sheriff asks. "Why is that?" 

"Who's going to believe you about werewolves?" Harris demands. 

"I don't know what you're talking about. Werewolves don't exist," the Sheriff tells him. "What I've heard just now is a confession that you colluded with three armed grown men that were stalking and planning to kill a teenage boy— _who just happens to be my son_." 

Harris goes suddenly very pale. "No," he says. "That's not—you know what they are, I didn't have a _choice_." 

"Things are already looking bad for you in any case," the Sheriff says. "No charges were ever pressed but your part in the Hale fire is well-documented, and on top of that two minors have just accused you of manipulating them into transporting controlled substances for you." 

"What?" Harris demands. "That's a lie, and you know it. I don't even—" 

"It doesn't matter what you've done," the Sheriff says. "Because the kids in question happen to be Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin, and both of them are known for getting what they want." 

"You're setting me up," Harris says in disbelief. "Jackson, Lydia? They're my best students, they wouldn't—" 

"They would, and they have," the Sheriff says. "Your career is over, Harris, but you might still have a shot at making something of your life. But for once you're going to have to think of someone other than yourself. I get your full cooperation, and I might consider being lenient. So you have two choices. You can come to the station with me willingly and work with our sketch artist, and we'll get you all set up in a cozy little cell, or I can drag your ass there in cuffs. It's up to you." 

"Okay," Harris says, swallowing hard. "I'll work with the sketch artist." 

"Wise choice," he says, getting to his feet and dragging Harris up out of the booth. He pushes him out ahead of him, and Harris stumbles, still half-way to drunk. 

"I used to like Stiles, you know," Harris says. "He's clever, and he always stood up for himself, even if it meant getting in trouble. I've never—I always give in. I guess I took it out on him." 

Harris turns to look at him then, looking suddenly younger and so lost, and the Sheriff can almost feel bad for him. Almost. It isn't right or fair but if it had been someone else's kid in danger maybe he could have forgiven him—but it's Stiles, so he says nothing, and moves to shove him forward again. 

There's a rush of air before he takes another step, a faint whistle buzzing in his ears, and then Harris is falling out of his grip. The Sheriff is already reaching for his gun, scanning the street, before he quite registers what's happened. People start screaming and he snaps on his radio, calling for back up as he kneels down beside Harris. 

"Harris?" he whispers, reaching out to check for a pulse. He knows before he even touches him that it's no use—because there's an arrow stuck straight through the hollow of his throat.


	10. Stiles and Derek 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So….I'm sorry about, you know, killing Harris ~~but probably not as sorry as I should be~~. There is a reason why he had to die! And perhaps not the one you think. 
> 
> I was planning to make it up to you all by having some actual Sterek take place. I know they're busy and all, but they should probably discuss how they're dating at some point. But somehow…this happened instead. Probably because I had Maroon Five's _One More Night_ playing on repeat the entire time I wrote it.

"Okay, this is workable," Derek says, and it's the absolute last straw. Stiles feels all of his calm snap and burst out like a broken rubber band. 

"Workable?" he shouts, and he knows he's on the verge of hysteria. He's been holding himself together remarkably well, he'd like to think. It's not as though the whole almost dying thing is new. Been there, done that, ruined the t-shirt. 

Being the subject of an apparent literal witch-hunt? Not so much. 

"I'm not even a witch!" Stiles insists. "I just have…spark. Or whatever." 

"This was written by Peter," Derek says. "That's just what werewolves call people with spark. It doesn't mean anything." 

"If anything I'm a wizard," Stiles protests weakly. "Sorcerer, even. I could live with sorcerer. I'm not a witch." 

"Stiles," Derek says softly. "You're focusing on the wrong part. You're missing the obvious solution." 

It takes a second to understand, because he's so distracted—but then it clicks what Derek means, and he feels his heart sink. "Not effective against werewolves," Stiles recites, and closes his eyes. "But I'm not a werewolf, Derek. It's still no guarantee if you turn me. It could kill me even if I was perfectly healthy when you bit me. That's the disclaimer, right? Super healing, super speed, but only if you live." 

"You'll live," Derek insists. 

"You don't know that," Stiles argues. "You don't. You're not the first to offer, you know, so it's not like I've never thought about it, and it's not like I haven't ever _wanted_ it, but I—" 

Derek goes very still, his eyes turning crimson so seamlessly Stiles almost doesn't notice the change. "What?" he demands. 

"Right, never told you about that," Stiles realizes, swallowing hard. "Look, it's not important—" 

Derek is in front of him before he can blink, delicately turning his chin so he meets his eyes again. "Peter offered you the bite?" he demands. 

"Yes," Stiles says. "But what with him being a murdering psychopath, I thought it best to turn him down." 

"And he didn't bite you anyway?" Derek demands, his brow furrowing. 

"Obviously," Stiles agrees. "It's not a big deal." 

"It is," Derek snaps, though he releases him. "He'd been half out of his mind. I didn't think he was capable of that sort of restraint."

"Yeah, not his biggest fan myself," Stiles says. "But we kind of have more pressing matters to discuss." 

"I'm not Peter," Derek says sharply, turning back towards him. "This is me asking. And I am _asking_. Let me give you the bite."

"Derek," Stiles starts. "You have to understand—" 

"Understand what?" Derek demands. "Why you need to be a good little martyr? You accepted us easier than any human I've ever known. Why do you hate the thought of being like us?" 

"I don't," Stiles says. "But it isn't who I am. What would it be like for you, if you were suddenly just human?" 

"That's different," Derek says. 

"Why?" Stiles demands. "Because you think you'd be getting downgraded, while I'd just be getting an upgrade? It's not that simple." 

"It's different because I'm just trying to keep you alive," he snarls, backing him up against the cabinet. Stiles breath catches as Derek tilts his head down, closing the scant inch distance between them. "And we had a deal." 

"I know, but what if it's too late?" Stiles asks, and he feels a little sick, because he doesn't want to disappoint Derek. Even before this there had always been that niggling unease—the knowledge that Derek wanted more from him than he knew how to give, that someday he might need to choose between being human and being with Derek. 

But Stiles has always liked a challenge, and he had wanted it all. Now his stubbornness might cost him everything, because he'd stalled for time he didn't have.

Their mysterious captive had given him around a day, so Stiles thought he had a few hours at least. But he's not any closer to a cure, and he feels like he's being hollowed out. He thinks of Peter's cryptic description: _a door_ , and he kind of gets it now. It's like if you leave the door open in the middle of winter, the way the cold will sneak inside and frost will form on the doorjamb and the entryway until it overtakes the whole house. 

"Stiles," Derek says, his voice halfway between a demand and a plea. "Please." 

"If you bite me now, I'm pretty sure it'll only kill me faster," he whispers, and he reaches up to pull down the collar of the leather jacket. The black tendrils have reached his neck, trailing upwards—he can feel one curving behind his ear, and the other curling down towards his collarbone. 

"God damn it, Stiles!" Derek shouts, and he punches his fist through the glass cabinet just to the right of Stiles' head. Stiles winces as it shatters, and the glass goes skittering out across the floor. Derek reaches out then to frame his face, his hands shockingly gentle after the display of violence. "It's still our best chance." 

"Not necessarily," Stiles says. "There's still Bloody Mary." 

"Not happening," Derek says at once. "She has some kind of hold on you I don't like, and she nearly killed you." 

"She's the piece that doesn't fit here, and we can't just keep ignoring that," Stiles insists. "Everything points to hunters, but they don't use mountain ash, and they sure as hell don't have the kind of power she does. She said she could help me." 

"Yes, right after she made it worse," Derek snaps. He steps back with a sigh, running a hand through his hair, and Stiles uses the breathing room to turn and look at the broken cabinet. 

He absentmindedly reads the labels on the bottles as Derek paces, until one catches his eye and his breath sticks in his throat. He closes his eyes as he closes his hand around it, and then he turns back around. Derek pauses in his pacing and looks over at him, but he doesn't notice what he's holding in his hand. 

"Then I'll talk to her," he says resolutely. 

"No," Stiles says at once. "You can't." 

"Whatever she was doing didn't have any effect on me," Derek insists. "I've taken her out one time before without a problem. I can handle her. I'll get the truth from her." 

Stiles knows he can't let Derek be alone with her. There is something about her, and Stiles suspects that he's connected to her in some way he's not sure he's ready to face. He can't shake the feeling that he should know more about her than he does, but one thing he's certain of is that she won't speak to Derek. She won't tell him anything, and he suspects she's strong enough to hurt even an alpha if she's trying hard enough. 

He doesn't know exactly how he knows any of that, so he can't seem to put an argument together in his mind that will convince Derek to stay here. 

"This is what you wanted, right?" Derek demands. "You're right that it's our only other option, but I meant it when I said I wasn't letting you near her. You're staying here." Derek's eyes have gone red again, and he's using his alpha voice, the one that can vibrate through his very bones.

But Stiles isn't one of his betas.

He moves between Derek and the door, one hand outstretched to stop him. "Derek," he starts.

"These are the choices, Stiles," Derek says. "You either let me try the bite, or I go find out what she's done to you. You don't want the bite, so this is what we're left with." 

"You don't understand," Stiles says. "You don't know what I felt. She's toying with us, if you go in there thinking you can force her she's gonna—" 

"Are you trying to convince me that you're the better choice to talk to her?" Derek demands. "Because that's not what you're doing."

Derek steps forward, reaching out to move Stiles out of the way. Stiles has maybe the space of a single heartbeat to decide what he's going to do, and then he's slamming the glass jar at the ground beside their feet. The contents slide towards the doorway like they're being pulled by a magnet, lining up to form a seamless barrier. 

Stiles has gotten quite proficient at wielding mountain ash. 

Derek's eyes latch onto his in disbelief, and Stiles uses his hesitation to move. He throws himself out the doorway, making it across the line just before Derek's fingers can wrap around his ankle to tug him back. Stiles drops down against the opposite wall, taking in air with deep, gulping breaths.

Then he forces himself to look up. 

Derek's just about as furious as expected, but Stiles can handle the anger. He's used to pissing people off, he could probably write a book. It didn't even have to be werewolf specific, he could title it: _101 Ways to Make Someone Want to Kill You Without Hardly Trying_. He practically has it down to an art form. 

It's the pain and the hurt that tug at Stiles, because there aren't a lot of people he cares about, but he'd do just about anything to keep that look from the eyes of those he does. 

"Don't go all Alpha on me," Stiles says quickly. "Just let me explain." 

Derek is right at the edge of the mountain ash, his eyes deep red, and it's strange the way Stiles can almost feel the pressure he's putting against it. The ash is a constant little buzz in the back of his mind, one that he is keeping up with a voice that sounds rather like Ian McKellen: _you shall not pass_. 

Derek squats down, looking across the space between them and straight into Stiles. Stiles can see the way he's poised to move, ready to grab him and drag him back. But this is why Stiles has stayed as he is for so long—he can do things they can't. All that strength, held back by a little ash. 

"Let me out," Derek says, and his voice is level. Stiles can see him fighting to keep himself calm. 

Stiles presses his eyes shut, kicking his legs out to push himself straighter where he sits against the wall. "I can't," he says. "You haven't left me a choice." 

"Stiles," Derek says, and his voice sounds smooth now, sweet in a way that's out of place. That's Peter influence—some echo of his charm, being borrowed for a good cause. "Just let me out." 

He knows that he can't, because he can't trust the reasonable tone Derek's somehow managed. Stiles knows that Derek's going to force him to do what he thinks is right if he lets him out. Derek would lock Stiles up and go to face her alone—they're not so different, really, for all that the pack likes to joke about how they could be a case study for opposites attract. 

This is the one and only chance that they will both make it out of here alive, and that thought keeps his resolve. He's just going to have to take the chance that in saving them he's going to ruin what they've begun. 

Derek should understand, though, better than anyone. After all, he'd been prepared to do the exact same thing.

"This is the only way," he says. "I need to talk to her alone." 

"If you die," Derek growls, "I will never forgive you." 

"I know," Stiles says, as he shakily pushes himself up to his feet. "I'm sorry." 

"You're sorry?" Derek demands. "If you're sorry, then break the damn line!" 

"I'm not going to let you die," Stiles says. "Not for me." 

"I've been the survivor, Stiles, I'm not going to do it again," Derek snarls, as he stands. "So don't kid yourself that you're saving me. Break. The. Damn. Line." 

"You're wrong about me, you know," Stiles says, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm not planning to be a martyr. I don't want to die and I'm not going to go down without a fight—I'm just…I can't let you fight for me. This is something I have to do myself."

"You don't have to," Derek says. "You taught me that, Stiles. You bring us all together, _you_ do that, but you never count on us in return." 

"You're a leader," Stiles says. "So you know there are times you need certain people for certain jobs. It's me that they're targeting. I need to know why. There's only one person I can think to ask, and somehow I know that she'll only talk to me." 

"Stiles," Derek warns. "You can't. You don't know what happened when they attacked, you don't remember—she's dangerous, she does something to you, please just let me out and we'll talk. I promise. We'll talk." 

"If anything happens, tell my dad I love him, yeah?" Stiles asks, as he starts backing away. "And look after Scott, okay, because he'd be lost without me." 

"Stiles," Derek whispers, his voice choking off at the end, a strange little whimper that Stiles might make a dog joke about if the sound didn't break his heart. 

"You're going to be fine, though," Stiles tells him. "I know you are. Because you're you. But I thought you should know, just for the record, that I'm sort of in love with you. "

Stiles turns the corner before he loses the will to walk away. He can hear Derek screaming at him to come back, can feel him slamming himself against the invisible barrier generated by the ash. But the barrier doesn't hurt him, because Stiles doesn't want it to. It's a small consolation, but it's the best he can do.

He lets himself lean on the wall for support as he moves down the hall. There's a pounding in his head like a heartbeat, a strange distant pulse, and it pulls him along. He stops in front of her door and leans his forehead against it, holding in as a sob as he hears Derek scream his name. 

Stiles knows he wouldn't have survived the bite. He already feels like he's being split into two, and he's too vulnerable to be able to fight against anything else. It would tear him apart. 

If he'd let Derek bite him, it would have just been an easy out. And Stiles plans to fight this with every breath he has left. Someday, he hopes that Derek will realize that he's doing this for him—because maybe Derek will never forgive him for this, but if he'd died from the bite then Derek would never have forgiven himself. 

He reaches out then and turns the doorknob, pushing the door open and stepping inside. She's still sitting in the corner, and she glances up to look at him, seemingly unsurprised to see him. Her bloodied lips stretch into a grin that's almost obscene. 

"Well," she purrs. "Alone at last."


	11. Scott and Allison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a rule not to post anything after midnight, but what the hell, I break that rule all the time. Also, I feel really bad about the cliffhanger I left you all with last time! So I thought I'd leave you with a different one.
> 
> But please don't kill me, because hey, we're more than halfway there! And answers are coming fast the next few parts, I promise.

There is a slow burn of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He feels wired and exhausted all at once, because this whole investigation is falling apart. He left his deputies with Harris; had needed to tell them Stiles was missing to explain his absence, because they all know it isn't in his nature to leave others to clean up his mess. Harris had been in his custody—he was meant to keep him safe. 

But more than that, he'd lost his chance at learning what he'd known. 

That's his ruthless streak showing. Stilinskis are notoriously single-minded when it comes to protecting those they love. Stiles is so much like his mother, but that's one trait the Sheriff gave to him. 

He takes the stairs two at a time as he rushes out into the cave. He glances at the dented derailed car before turning around and stopping as he sees Scott and Allison. They're huddled together on a decrepit old couch, whispering to each other as they lean over a map they've laid across the ground. Scott's eyes widen and turn to latch on his in surprise. 

"Mr. Stilinski," Scott says, jumping to his feet, and he looks guilty of something. The emotion is practically leaking out of him. Scott has always been his barometer for things like this. Stiles had once broken his arm when he was eight years old and tried to fix the break himself with popsicle sticks. He'd looked right in the Sheriff's eyes and promised he was fine. 

If Scott hadn't broken down crying, he might never have known something was wrong. 

"Please tell me neither of you had anything to do with this," he says quietly, and tosses the photos to them. They land at their feet like abstract art—a corner of Harris' eye in one, the tip of the arrow in another. A close-up of the broken arrow in the evidence bag after it had been removed for transport. 

There was a time he'd shielded these kids from seeing this kind of thing, and even now he'd still held back the photos with the most blood. He thinks it's probably a futile effort, though, as he suspects these days they've seen far worse. 

"Is that _Harris_?" Scott asks in shock, and a tension loosens in the Sheriff's spine. Scott's not that good a liar, there's no way he knew a thing about Harris' death. 

"Oh my god," Allison breathes. "Then Lydia was right, he must have been involved." 

"About Harris, at least," the Sheriff reluctantly agrees. "The charges against them have been dropped. Apparently Jackson's father dug up evidence that Harris was part of some eco-protest group when he was at Berkeley, and some of the members ended up pretty radical. They're trying to tie him in to some of their activities. Getting shot down in the middle of the street certainly hasn't helped his case." 

"He's really dead?" Scott asks. "We're supposed to have a test next week." 

"Yes," the Sheriff says, long-suffering, nodding towards the photo of the broken arrow. "But I think we all know this is not the work of eco-terrorists." 

"Wait, you think we killed him?" Scott asks in disbelief. "I mean, I was trying to track him, but not to _kill_ him. Well, probably. I was only going to maybe throw him into a wall or something. You know, Derek style, see if he'd talk—" 

Allison reaches out and places a hand on his arm, and he goes quiet. She looks up and meets his eyes. "This isn't a hunter's arrow," she says confidently, because she's already caught up with the Sheriff's suspicions. "It's wooden, and obsidian, and the feathers are peacock. It's pretty and all, but it's all but useless against anything supernatural. Even though Harris was only human, it's unlikely a hunter would have something like this just laying around." 

"Anyway, Allison's been with me the whole time," Scott defends at once. "She's the one that convinced me not to hunt Harris down, so she's the last person you should suspect." 

"She's also an expert marksman. Just how many people do you think are running around town with bows and arrows?" the Sheriff snaps. 

"Um, well, this is Beacon Hills," Scott says helpfully. "So maybe more than you would think?" 

The Sheriff sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. The worst part about that argument is that it's valid. Nothing in this town makes sense anymore, it's like there's a whole second world that has opened up and slowly begun to overtake everything he knows. 

"You said Allison convinced you not to go after Harris," the Sheriff says, before looking back up at them. "What were you doing instead?" 

Allison and Scott share a look, and he narrows his eyes. He's about to start making demands when Allison wraps her arms around herself and gives a little nod. Scott lets out a breath and starts talking at once. "There's some new hunters in town," he tells him. "We've been trying to find out where they're staying." 

"We think they might have Stiles, or at least know where he is," Allison says. 

"Stiles," the Sheriff says. "Not Derek?" 

"I could not care less about Derek Hale," Allison says levelly. "I'm doing this for Stiles." 

"I appreciate it," the Sheriff says honestly. "But I meant—do you mean that they were targeting Stiles? Because everything I've found seems to indicate they were, I just can't figure out why they would." 

"I don't know a lot," Allison says. "Since what happened with…with Gerard, my dad has been trying to keep us both out of the hunting business. We still work within Beacon Hills, but only if absolutely necessary." 

"Just tell him what you told me," Scott urges gently. 

Allison bites her lip, and lowers her hands like she doesn't know what to do with them. Stiles has told him just how dangerous she can be, but sometimes it's hard to believe it. Lydia likes to put on an act, but she never really hides very well—her intelligence and ruthlessness always shine through. Allison is potentially even more dangerous than her, because she looks nothing but innocent. 

"They come from an old family," Allison says. "One of the oldest. When my dad first mentioned them, I was worried about Scott." 

Scott reaches out and grabs her hand, squeezing it gently. Stiles has told him they're still not together, but that they're more together than ever. He thinks he finally gets what he meant by that. 

"My dad said I didn't have to worry," she says. "He told me the werewolves had nothing to worry about, because this family didn't hunt them. We—Argents, I mean, we've always hunted werewolves. Other hunting families hunt other things, or some hunt everything, but—" 

"Allison," the Sheriff interrupts gently. "What are you trying to tell me?" 

"The Lancres," she says. "They're witch hunters." 

"Witch hunters," the Sheriff repeats, and he knows what she's saying, but it's not really getting through. "You mean, they think Stiles is a witch?" 

"They don't just think it," Allison says. "We thought, with the mountain ash, well, it might have been a fluke. A lot of people have potential. But when I told my dad what happened at the hospital—" 

"You told your father that?" the Sheriff demands, and sees Scott's guilty wince. It wasn't hard to follow the gossip trail. Stiles had told Scott, Scott had told Allison, Allison had told Chris, and Chris… 

"I didn't realize what it meant," Allison says quietly. "And we wouldn't—we don't hunt witches, just like they don't hunt werewolves. My dad wouldn't have called them, if that's what you're thinking. He was not happy they were coming here. They make him nervous, and he's not easily spooked." 

That was quite the understatement. The kind of things Chris had seen, the Sheriff didn't think anything would spook him. 

"We have a pact with Mr. Argent," Scott assures him. "He wouldn't move against us, not any of us. That includes Stiles." 

"Whether he called them here or not, don't tell me he didn't know they were coming," the Sheriff snaps. "A warning would have been nice." 

Allison looks away, but doesn't even bother to try and pretend that wasn't the truth. 

"Well, you have a name now, right?" Scott says helpfully. "Lancres. So you can find them, right?" 

"They won't be using their real names," Allison says, before the Sheriff can. "They won't be staying anywhere that a record is kept. They'll be hiding somewhere off the grid."

"And the only person that's seen them is Harris," the Sheriff snaps. "The best he could give me was that one of them wore a werewolf's tooth around his neck." 

He sees the color drain from Allison's skin even before he hears her sharp intake of breath. She clutches her hand tighter around Scott's. "A werewolf's tooth?" she asks quietly. 

She can't possibly be horrified about the thought of violence against werewolves, not with what she's done. Which means her reaction is telling him something else. "You've seen it?" he demands. "Who was it?" 

She shakes her head. "No, I didn't see anyone. But I found a necklace like that," she explains. "It was sitting on my kitchen counter." 

He's heading back up the stairs almost before she finishes speaking. He ignores both Scott and Allison's attempts to call him back, focused now on one simple fact: Harris wasn't the only one that saw those hunters after all. 

Chris Argent has seen them too.


	12. Stiles and Derek 6

She has a strange laugh, or maybe it's just the juxtaposition of her laughter and the fact she's covered in blood that's strange. It's sort of hard to tell. 

She just sits there grinning at him like they're good friends, looking pleased and almost giddy, while dried blood is flaking off around her right eye because she hasn't bothered to peel it off. He wonders if maybe she's some kind of siren—because he can feel himself getting tugged closer to her, but common sense is telling him to run as fast as he can. 

"What are you?" he asks, and tries not to wince as the door clicks closed behind him. He can feel the mountain ash still, all lined up in the back of his mind, a tightly wound strand that Derek is doing his best to unravel. 

"You can just call me Amanda," she says, and her voice seems to slice straight through him to the bone, but he does his best to ignore it. She lets out another little laugh when he stands his ground. 

"Is that really your name?" he asks. 

"Is Stiles really yours?" she counters wryly. 

"Touché," Stiles says flatly. 

"I assume you've decided to take me up on my offer?" she asks. "And you're not dropping by just for small talk?" 

"Right to business I see," Stiles says. "So talk." 

"That's not how this works," she says. "I said I'd help if you released me. You want my help, you're going to have to hold up your end." 

Stiles glances skeptically at the ropes that Derek had used to bind her hands. They're tied well enough, but it's just ordinary rope and she managed to heal herself from the verge of death. He seriously doubts that they present that much of an obstacle. 

"Oh, you don't think I mean these?" she laughs, catching his look. She stands and the ropes unravel and spill uselessly at her feet. "I'm afraid what I ask of you is not so simple as that. I only left these on to keep up appearances for your familiar." 

"My familiar," Stiles repeats dubiously. 

She steps closer, and Stiles is certain he must have lost all sense when he stays where he is. "Your wolf," she says softly. "He's quite powerful, to belong to one so young as you. But you seem well able to keep him contained." 

"He's not a familiar, and he doesn't belong to anyone. That's not even…I just, he didn't want me to see you. Probably, he's the sane one and I should have listened," Stiles snaps. "Because I'm not—" 

"You're not what?" she asks. "Not a witch? It's not what you think it is, you know, and you won't be able to keep denying it for long. Haven't you ever heard of a witch-test?"

"Of course," Stiles snaps. "You were only proved innocent if you died." 

"Yes," she agrees. "Consider Belladonna a sort of a witch-test. The amount of poison you have running through your veins, if you were merely human you would already be dead." 

"I thought the whole point of it was that it kills witches?" Stiles demands. "The only safe way, right?" 

"There is no _safe_ way to kill a witch," she says. "Though it will certainly kill you, without my help. Ninety nine times out of a hundred, it'll destroy whatever witch it touches. It will drain them of their power and leave them utterly, and uselessly dead. It's why hunters like it so much. They have a tendency to rewrite history to forget about that hundredth time." 

"You act like you weren't with them," he says. "But don't try to tell me you weren't the one that laid the mountain ash." 

"I was, but perhaps not for the reason you think," she says. "I needed to keep you here."

"That's pretty much the reason I think," Stiles says dryly.

"They forced me to put the barrier up, but I have kept it there for your own good," she insists. "No one out there can help you. I'm the only one that might get you out of this alive." 

"Because you're a witch," Stiles says, and it's no longer a question. Part of him has always known exactly what she is—what _he is_. 

"Yes," she agrees, looking pleased at his admission. They both know he's as good as admitting he's also one himself. 

"There's no way I can trust you," Stiles says. 

"I was their prisoner, I have no loyalty to them," she says. "Do you really expect they would have allowed me to live, after they'd gotten what they wanted? They hunt us for sport. They only let me live so long because they wanted you more." 

"But why me?" Stiles demands. "I never got an invitation to wizarding school. I never fell through the glass at the zoo. I've always been completely ordinary—" 

"I'm sure you were," she says wryly. "But whatever you used to be, you're something else now. You lit the spark, Stiles, and it caught." She leans close enough that he can see the blood flaking around her hairline. It looks like chipped paint. "Do you have any idea at all how rare that is?" 

Stiles winces as he feels a strange tug at his mind, a little chink in his belief. Derek is pressing at the barrier with all the force of his own conviction, and Stiles has to catch his breath before he's able to slam the mountain ash all back into place. 

"I felt that," she says softly. "How can you have trouble believing, when you live in this world every day? Your wolf is scratching at the edge of your control, but despite being weakened you keep him safely boxed in. With all that poison in you, you should hardly be able to stand, nevermind cast a spell." 

"It's different," Stiles says. "They're different. I'm just human." 

"They're not so different," she says. "You've seen all the myths that have been built up around your familiar's kind—" 

"He's not—" Stiles interrupts hotly. 

"Your wolf then," she corrects absently. "The point is, you know better than anyone just how very little of it is actually true. People like to try and explain us, but they rarely get anything right. This is the way it really works—someone gets bit by a wolf, they become a wolf. Someone with power casts a spell, and it rebounds back on them the same way. You've been changing since the first moment you picked up that handful of ash."

"How do you know so much about me?" Stiles demands. 

"They've been watching you, stalking you," she admits. "They even had one of your teachers at their beck and call." 

"Harris," Stiles realizes. 

"I didn't bother to learn his name," she says. "I was far more interested in what they said about you. You have so little knowledge of what you are, but you've still managed to do more than most." 

"I know lots about witches," Stiles protests. "I've seen _Harry Potter_ like thirty times, and I own the complete box set of _Charmed_. You know, the one that looks like a spellbook? It's got lots of—" 

"You know very well there's nothing of consequence within those fictions," she says, for the first time sounding somewhat annoyed. "Though that's not to say there's no basis to any of it at all. We can't turn people into animals, but we _can_ force transformations in shifters. We can't fly with our bodies, but we can with our minds." 

"Astral projection? Seriously?" Stiles asks in disbelief. 

"These are all just words," she says. "It's like trying to act as a translator for a dead language, and not being able to find any of the proper equivalents. There are no words for what we are, for what we can do, so we have to make do with the ones that we have." 

"I always considered myself to be a Yoda," Stiles says. "But you're kinda giving me a run for my money with your constant nonsense." 

"Then let's cut to the chase, shall we?" she asks, and she pulls up her left sleeve, turning her wrist up. There are deep gouges in her skin, in the shape of a haphazard cross. A small stone has been inlaid within the folds of her skin, and from a distance it could almost pass for a bracelet. 

Up close, however, it's horrifying. The blood inside the wound and surrounding the gem is bright red but congealed, sealing the whole thing closed. 

"Oh god," Stiles whispers. The stone looks almost fused to her, and it's giving off a faint glow. He can feel its power just from looking at it, and he has to turn away as a wave of nausea hits him hard. 

"Hunters are so barbaric, don't you think?" she whispers. "You see now why I was with them? Had I not helped them, they would have used that poison on me. It was you or me. But now it's them or it's us, and I've got nothing to lose by helping you, though you have much to gain by helping me." 

"What is that thing?" Stiles demands, before forcing himself to look towards her again.

"It's a Chrysoberyl stone," Amanda says. "A Cat's-Eye, to be specific. In terms you could understand, it's sort of our kryptonite." 

"It's draining you?" Stiles guesses. 

"Restraining, is more apt. There is only one thing that can take magic from us—and it is running through your veins, not mine," she says. "The stone prevents me from using most of my magic. I have my ability to heal myself, or to cast simple spells, but nothing greater than that. It will not kill me, but it has crippled me." 

"What do you want me to do?" he asks suspiciously. 

"I want you to take it out," she says. "You help me, I'll help you." 

"You just said it was our kryptonite," he says. 

"It is," Amanda says. "So I can't promise it won't hurt, because it's gonna hurt like hell. Me a little more than you, if that's an incentive at all." 

"What are you going to do to them if I do this for you?" Stiles demands. "To the hunters?" 

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asks, grinning slyly. "Because I can promise you that if you do this, you and the wolf will be safe. Unless I've misjudged you terribly, I believe that is your primary concern? And make no mistake, they will kill him, Stiles. He's trapped here, not just by me, but by you. They'll get bored eventually and come searching, and he'll be helpless. You can't protect him without help." 

Stiles isn't so naïve to think her reasons noble—but she has a point. He's cut off from the rest of the pack and cornered by hunters, and he's got maybe a few hours left until his own time runs out. He'll let Derek free, certainly, but he's not sure how many hunters are out there, or if he'll be able to fight them all on his own. 

"Okay," he says, taking a deep breath. "What do I have to do?" 

"It's bound itself to my magic," she explains. "The hunters put it in, but even they wouldn't be able to get it out. You have to work yourself in-between it and rip it out. But do not hold it for more than a few seconds, or it will attach itself to you." 

"Yeah, great," Stiles says, wincing as he examines her mess of an arm. This is almost as bad as Derek wanting him to cut off his whole arm, except that was Derek, so it was worse. He takes a deep breath and then carefully wraps one hand around her wrist, pulling it closer as he studies the stone. 

It flares brightly, the line down the center making it appear as though it's watching him. Cat's-eye, she'd called it, and it's hard not to turn away. "Here goes nothing," he says, and slips his fingers beneath her skin. 

She lets out a choked gasp and Stiles falls to his knees, dragging her down with him. The pain travels from his fingertips up his arm and through his chest, wrapping around his heart and blurring his vision. 

But he doesn't let go. 

He catches the underside of it and drags it out, tossing it into the opposite wall just as he feels a rush of power. It hits like a tidal wave, pushing through him and burning outwards. He feels his grasp on the mountain ash scatter just as Amanda drags herself to her feet. 

"That is so much better," she says, and Stiles watches in disbelief as the dried blood spins away into the air, disappearing and leaving her spotless. 

He barely has time to reach for the edges of his own frayed control and she's already healing. He closes his eyes and reaches out for his broken spells, but it's too late. He loses his balance completely as the door blows outward off its hinges, and falls back to sit on the floor. 

Derek stands in the doorway, backlit and furious, like some sort of avenging angel. 

"Stiles," he growls, the transformation already obscuring his features as he steps into the light. 

He is so screwed. If the Belladonna doesn't kill him, Derek will. 


	13. Chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what's happening with this story. The parts keep getting longer and longer, and I had the whole thing planned out completely but the characters keep going off book. Probably I should be concerned that I'm blaming fictional characters for changing my story on me, but really it's just better not to argue with them. 
> 
> Thank you all for lovely feedback! I can't answer most of your questions, but I did answer one in the endnotes if you're interested, because I don't think it gives anything away.

The Argent house is beautiful in that McMansion sort of way—it's not all that different from the one across the street. The whole neighborhood is composed of cobbled stones and carefully tended yards and there's something insidious about it considering what he knows. 

Werewolves attend the high school, with hunters as their teachers and principals and it's all so seamless. Looking back everything makes sense, but it's nothing he would have guessed. They all slip so effortlessly into his little town, wearing their smiles and showing up for city council meetings and mowing their lawns on Sunday along with everyone else. 

He can't say he ever really liked Chris Argent. He knew he was hiding something right from the start, but he would have guessed it was the usual mid-life crisis fare—a young mistress, maybe. He never would have guessed this. And he never would have thought it would come to _this_.

He uses a bump-key to get in the front door. He'd confiscated it off a couple of kids a few months ago, and for some reason had kept it in his patrol car instead of filing it away. It's a useful tool to have, after all, and not one that's easy to officially get. 

The entryway is as spotless as it was when he came here to watch them carry Victoria Argent's body out. His boots squeak against the freshly scrubbed tiles and he steps carefully until the sound disappears, leaving the door still open behind him. He wonders idly if they risk a maid, or if they simply don't have enough possessions to make a mess. 

He moves towards the kitchen, his eyes scanning over the counter and latching onto the necklace that has been tossed on the surface. He reaches out and snags it just as he hears a sound to his right. The Sheriff spins, twisting Chris' handgun from his grip and using his other hand to push him up against the wall. Stiles had mentioned, off-hand, that Argent had once done this to him—so his grip might be a bit tighter than strictly necessary. 

"Where is he?" he demands, and he wants to sound threatening, but Chris has been hunting werewolves for god knows how long, so he doesn't even flinch. 

"Sheriff," he says pleasantly. "Always a pleasure. I didn't hear you come in." 

The Sheriff holds up the necklace, stepping back though he keeps Argent's own gun aimed at him. "I'm going to ask you again, and you're going to want to answer this time," he says. "Where is he?" 

Chris looks at the necklace and his expression tightens. "It's not what you think," he says. 

"It never is," the Sheriff says, dropping the necklace in his chest pocket so he can aim the gun with both hands. "Start talking." 

"It would be easier if I could show you," Chris says, and nods behind him. The Sheriff steps back further, keeping Chris in the corner of his eye as he glances in the direction he'd indicated—it's a closed door. 

The Sheriff nods reluctantly, his heart stuttering with either hope or fear of what might be behind the door. Chris steps past him, pulling it open and starting down the stairs. The Sheriff follows him, keeping his grip on the gun, his fingers tightening almost painfully as he imagines Gerard dragging Stiles down these steps. 

But it isn't Stiles he finds at the bottom of the stairs. 

A man in his mid-forties is there instead, tied down on a wooden chair and splattered with blood. The prisoner laughs when he sees the Sheriff. "Ah, Sheriff," he says. "I'd say, thank god, I'm saved! But I'm gonna take a wild guess that you're not here to set me free and arrest him, considering who your son is." 

"Argent, explain, now," the Sheriff demands, turning to look at Chris.

Chris has moved in front of his prisoner, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "You want to know where I got that necklace from?" he asks. "I got it from him."

The man looks exhausted, but he has that same blasé air that Chris seems to—both of them like soldiers too long at war. He laughs. "Yeah, but look, I didn't kill the damn werewolf, okay? So if that's what you're worried about, don't. Your monopoly on skinning the things is safe," he says. "I took that off the neck of a witch. So if you have a problem, Argent, you can take it up with her."

"Because I'm certain you left her alive, Lancre," Chris snarls, wrapping his hands around the arms of the chair to cage him in. "Way I remember it, your family's monopoly was killing kids that had never hurt anyone." 

The Sheriff steps forward angrily. "This is him then?" he demands. "He's the hunter that went after Stiles?" 

"He's the head of the Lancres," Chris says. "Used to be they were something of a prominent family." 

"Look who's talking," Lancre snarls. 

Chris ignores him, stepping back and glancing towards the Sheriff. "His father was a good man, he followed a code," he says. "But they've done nothing but break it since he died." 

"I haven't broken it," Lancre insists, leaning forward with a mad gleam in his eyes. "I _enforce_ it." 

"Nous Chassons ceux qui nous chassent," Argent says. 

"No, that's your code, you and your crazy fucked-up family," he snaps. "For the rest of us in the hunting community, the code's a bit simpler. We protect humans, and kill the unnatural. We keep balance." 

"I don't think you quite understand what balance entails," Chris says wryly. 

"Enough," the Sheriff snaps. "Just tell me what the hell you've done with my son."

The man's cocky expression falters for the first time, morphing into some kind of stiff resolve. "I'm sorry about the kid," he says. "It wasn't his fault he was what he was, but most werewolves were human once too. It doesn't change what they've become, just ask Argent. But we're hunters. So we do what we have to." 

The Sheriff pushes past Chris, gripping the underside of the chair to tilt it back and send it crashing against the cement floor. He moves around and slams one foot on the man's chest, aiming the gun between his eyes. "Why," he asks, deadly calm, "are you talking about him in the past tense?" 

"Sheriff," Chris warns, but he almost doesn't even hear him. The blood is rushing in his ears and he feels dizzy suddenly, and maybe Stiles has been right all along, and he should be more worried about his heart. 

"Jesus," the hunter curses, blinking up at the Sheriff in disbelief. "Christ. Look, you don't have a clue what's really going on here. I didn't have a choice, okay? If we don't stop them when they're young we don't get a second chance." 

"Sheriff, I need you to listen to me," Chris says softly, "I don't think Stiles is dead." 

The Sheriff takes in air suddenly, though he never really noticed when he'd stopped breathing in the first place. "How do you know?" he demands, without taking his eyes form Lancre. 

"Because I found Lancre and his men right after they attacked the Hale place, and Stiles wasn't with them," Chris says. "If they'd had him, they wouldn't have left him behind, whether he was dead or alive. They…burn the bodies, after. Every time." 

"Kill me if you want," Lancre says going limp in his bonds, resting his head back against the concrete as he gives a slow, empty grin. "But it won't save your son. If he's not dead yet, he soon will be, and my men will see him burn just like all the rest." 

He doesn't even really think about it—he just pulls the trigger. 

The bullet slams into the wooden back of the chair beside Lancre's head, splintering it apart. Tiny little cuts appear along his left cheek as the debris slice across his skin, but the Sheriff could have done much worse. He's always been a good shot. 

Chris appears at his side, taking his gun back. The Sheriff lets him because he's proved his point, and then he leans close until he's only inches from Lancre's wide, frightened eyes. "You better hope you're wrong," he says. "Because if I don't find Stiles in the condition I left him, I'll make sure the next bullet I fire at you doesn't miss." 

Chris gently takes his arm, herding him back up the steps. "Let's talk," he says quietly, casting a warning glance back at Lancre.

Lancre, however, apparently doesn't know when to quit. "You have no idea just what your son is capable of," he shouts after them, his voice cutting out with a choked off laugh. "You'd be thanking me, if you did!" 

Chris gets him back into the kitchen and then locks the door behind him. "You're lucky that room is soundproofed," he hisses, like he has the moral high ground. 

"Of course you soundproofed it. That's just good sense. You've got to make sure not to disturb the neighbors when you're tossing teenagers down there to torture them," he snarls. "So don't you dare take that tone with me, because you haven't got a leg to stand on." 

"I've been trying to find Stiles too," Chris insists. "Believe it or not, I'm the one that's been trying to keep those kids alive, since long before you ever knew what they were." 

The Sheriff lets out a sound of frustration, spinning around so he doesn't have to look at him. He knows that it's the truth—and maybe Chris is just the lesser of evils in this new strange world, but sometimes that's the best you can do. "What was he talking about?" he demands, glancing back at him. "What did he mean when he said I didn't know what was really going on?"

"We don't only hunt werewolves," Chris says, his voice reverting to its normal calm. "There are other things, as you learned in that hospital. Spirits, a varied assortment of shifters. Then there are the others, those that are entirely human in appearance, and go by so many names: sorcerers, witches, wizards—call them what you want, they're the most dangerous of the lot."

"Allison mentioned that, but Stiles' isn't really...I mean, all he's ever done is create a barrier, right?" the Sheriff asks hesitantly. "And a spell to bind that spirit, but that's just—"

"When you first come into this world, it's easy to be overwhelmed by the fantastical," Chris interrupts. "You might start to take for granted that the impossible is possible, but let me assure you: what Stiles can do is not usual even in my world. I've been hunting all my life, and I've only ever known three people to have that kind of power." 

"Stiles isn't dangerous," the Sheriff insists. "He's not a werewolf, he's just a human kid." 

He was _his_ human kid, and none of this made any damn sense. So Stiles could do a little magic, but he'd only ever used it to harm the sort of things the hunters hunted anyway. There was no reason to go after him.

"That doesn't matter to them," Chris says. "All that concerns them is what he _could_ do. They don't wait for human blood to be drawn the way I was taught, because they think if they do they'll already be too late." 

"I need to know why they're so afraid of him," the Sheriff says, finally forcing himself to meet Chris' gaze head on. "I need to know what he's capable of." 

"They fear him because that's what they were taught," Chris says. "Hunting families—you have to understand, it's a way of life. Most of us end up…well, unstable. We're soldiers in a war no one knows about, and Lancre's been trained all his life to see Stiles as the enemy. That's all." 

"No, you're not telling me something," the Sheriff says. He takes a deep breath, and then asks softly, "If I'm going to protect him, I need to know the truth. Just how powerful is he?" 

"I really don't know," Chris says. "I don't even know if there are limits to what he could do, because they haven't ever been tested. The way I understand it, witches see the world in ways we can't, and they can manipulate it in ways we don't understand. They make things happen simply by believing they can."

The Sheriff swallows hard, remembering Stiles that day at the hospital. That woman had been so unnaturally strong, and Stiles had been weakened from blood loss and drugs, but had held her down like it was nothing. There'd been a sort of light in his eyes, something he hadn't quite understood at the time. And the way he'd trapped her; he'd just been so _certain_ , so collected. He'd never seen Stiles so focused. 

"The truth is I don't know much about this. I'm not an expert on witches, and I have a feeling Lancre isn't going to be very forthcoming," Chris tells him. "You need to speak with Deaton." 

"The vet," the Sheriff says, wondering at him coming up again. He remembers the photos he found in Harris' apartment. "Stiles has been with him a lot lately." 

"That doesn't surprise me," Chris says. "Deaton is the one that introduced Stiles to magic." 

"Deaton?" the Sheriff demands. "I thought the werewolves—" 

"Most of the werewolves don't know a thing about it," Chris says. "And the only one that does isn't the sort you want to ask. I'll keep trying to get Lancre to talk, but you've got a better chance getting answers from Deaton." 

"Do I want to know how you're going to try and get Lancre to talk?" he asks. 

"It's probably best if you don't," Chris says. 

"Then I won't ask," the Sheriff says tiredly. "Just make sure he's still alive, when I come to arrest him." 

"I think I can manage to keep him in one piece," Chris says. "But I make no promises if his friends come for him. I can't take the chance he might get free." 

"Fair enough," the Sheriff says, having said just about all he's willing to in defense of Lancre's life. He taps the pocket that holds the werewolf tooth necklace. "But I'm keeping this." 

Chris shrugs, unconcerned, and the Sheriff starts for the entryway. Chris steps after him, probably to make sure he leaves. "Just be careful," Chris warns. "Even I'm out of my depth with this." 

The Sheriff pauses at the open door, gripping the edge of it with one hand. "You're scared of him too, aren't you?" he asks, and the thought worries at him. Chris hunts down werewolves the way animal control rounds up puppies, he single-handedly captures and knocks out experienced hunters. He doesn't want to think why he might be scared of his son.

"No," Chris says, smiling wryly, and the answer surprises him and unlocks something that had coiled itself around his heart. "I'm more scared of what Derek Hale's going to do than Stiles. Power isn't the issue, Sheriff, control is. And as unexpected as it is, control is one thing Stiles has in spades. He doesn't lash out in fear or anger with his power—every time he's used it, it's been planned." 

The Sheriff wonders if he might think it strange too, that incredible control Stiles has, if he hadn't seen his power for himself. He nods stiffly, all the thanks he's willing to give, and then steps out onto the porch. 

"Then again," Chris calls after him, and the Sheriff stops and looks back. "That's its own brand of dangerous, so I wouldn't exactly count him out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked if Derek was really Stiles' familiar, and since this is not really part of the mystery, I thought I would explain my interpretation. In my research (a.k.a my five minute foray into the depths of wikipedia), familiars are described as supernatural beings that protect a young mage as they are just coming into their power. So on the surface, it fits. 
> 
> But within this story, Amanda is using the term, if not quite as derogatory, certainly as indicative of Derek being something less than they are. Whereas for Stiles, he sees his relationship with Derek as based on them being a mix of equals and opposites. So is Derek a familiar? In Amanda's eyes, certainly. In Stiles' eyes? Not even close. But as is a reoccurring theme within this story, it's simply a word to describe a single faucet of what Derek is and does—whether that means he is a familiar or not is up to you.


	14. Stiles and Derek 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far the hardest part to write, but I promise this is all going somewhere, and the next few chapters will hold all the answers. I'm not going to meet my goal of having this done in time for the new year, but I will keep trying to update regularly, so it should be finished before January is through. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their support and reviews! I know I probably drive you all crazy with the cliffhangers, but they just keep writing themselves in. Totally on accident. Really. I promise.

"Stay down," Derek growls. 

Stiles has seen Derek angry lots of times—for instance, just earlier that night, when he locked him inside Peter's library with a line of mountain ash. But there was a world of difference between the anger that had been in Derek's eyes when he'd glared at him, and the fury that shown in them as he stared down Amanda. 

Stiles hasn't been afraid of Derek for a long time, so sometimes he forgets just how very dangerous he is. 

"Derek, wait," Stiles starts, but Derek is already half-wolfed out, and he lunges for Amanda without so much as looking back in his direction. 

Amanda just slides out of the way, reversing their places so she's standing in the hall. Stiles feels the barrier come up and reaches out to grab Derek, but he misses and the werewolf slams straight into it. Derek lets out a pained roar as he gets pushed back a foot. 

"I'm getting really sick of people doing that," Derek snaps. 

"Then perhaps you should stop giving us reason," Amanda tells him, clasping her hands in front of her as she stands calmly in the hall. She's somehow mended all the rips in her clothes, cleared them of all the stains, and Stiles thinks absently that somehow, it makes her look even more dangerous than she did before. 

Derek growls at her, a low kind of thrum that seems to shake the foundations around them. She just watches him, looking amused. "You really should get a hold on your temper," she says. "I expected more of a born wolf, and a Hale, at that." 

Stiles narrows his eyes and climbs to his feet. "Hey, listen," he starts. 

"Don't say a word," Derek growls. He keeps his eyes on Amanda, but reaches blindly behind him and grabs Stiles around the wrist. 

"That right there is the problem," Amanda tells him kindly. "You really ought to give people a chance to explain. Stiles and I have everything worked out, don't we, Stiles?" 

"Stiles might trust you, but I don't," Derek says. "I know you're doing something to him." 

"I am," she agrees. "As he is doing something to me. It's not conscious, but we are connected, because we're the same." 

"He's nothing like you," Derek says. 

"And what do you know about me?" she asks. "Or him, for that matter?" 

"Can we all just take a step back, please, and discuss this?" Stiles asks. "Derek, I know you're not happy about this, but I made a deal with her—" 

"I don't care. I can't trust you right now," Derek says, tightening his grip. He returns his attention to Amanda. "What have you done to him?" 

"Because something must have been done, for him to defy you?" Amanda asks. "That you think that just proves my point that you don't know him very well at all." 

"I know better than to believe anything you say," Derek says lowly, stepping forward until he is just pressed against the mountain ash. Stiles can't feel the pressure against it the same way he had before, because he's not the one holding it in place. It's a weird, secondary awareness; he knows that Amanda still has ash on the surface, and she can direct it around above her like some kind of Etch-A-Sketch, but he can't get a grip on it himself. 

Amanda glances his way when he pushes at it experimentally, but she doesn't seem concerned. They both know he's too weak right now to bring it down, and with as angry as Derek is, it might be best if it stays in place.

"Stiles is not the one acting irrationally," Amanda says. "You are. Have you figured out yet, why that is?" 

"You were with the hunters," Derek says. "I don't care what stories you've given Stiles, you still tried to kill us. You brought the whole house down on us." 

"You think that was me?" she laughs. "Well, it's certainly true that you dislike me because you see me as a threat, but not of that sort. Your fear of me is something more primal than that—you're worried I'm going to take Stiles from you. You can feel our connection, can't you? And you fear that it's stronger than your own." 

"Okay, no, just, no," Stiles protests. "I know we've got the whole, witches united thing going on, I'll give you that, but you're in no place to—" 

Amanda ignores him, and so does Derek, for that matter. It's all getting pretty annoying, because shouldn't what happens next be _his decision_?

"But you're right to worry," Amanda tells Derek, grinning. "Because to save him, he'll most likely lose whatever tenuous connections he has to your pack. But it _will_ save him, so you're just going to have to decide what's more important to you. His loyalty? Or his life?"

"If anyone is deciding anything, it's going to be me," Stiles snaps. 

"Your bargain has already been struck," Amanda tells him, glancing towards him. "Promises between those like us are not easily broken." She looks back to Derek. "What remains to be seen is if your wolf will stand aside, or if I will need to remove him from the way myself." 

"What have you promised her?" Derek demands, turning to look at him for the first time. His eyes are still blazing red, and it's so hard to read any emotion but anger past them. 

"The hunters had her magic restrained," Stiles tells him. "I released her, and she promised to help save us." 

"Well, I promised to save _him_ ," Amanda says wryly. "Though I didn't manage to get him to agree before I pointed out that it was also the only way to save you. Because he thinks he needs to protect you." She leans forward with a grin. "But we know better, don't we, wolf? We both know you're the one that's supposed to protect him—you're not doing a great job, though." 

"You don't know anything about what he's done," Stiles says. "And I'm starting to think Derek was right, if you're just going to—" 

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek snaps, giving another tug on his wrist to drag him back again. Derek glares across the barrier at her. "Whatever I've done, I've never intentionally hurt him. You can't say the same." 

"Perhaps. Still, Stiles was right to come to me," she says. "But you don't ever make the right decision, do you, _Derek_? You make the wrong ones, and get people killed." 

"You know, you're making it really hard to defend you," Stiles snaps.

Amanda crosses her arms. "Whatever emotional pain I may cause, I apologize for," she says. "But I either convince him to let me help you this way or I banish him to his other form." 

" _Or_ ," Stiles snaps. "We go to option three, where I call this whole deal off and you just leave us the hell alone." 

"And leave you to die?" Amanda asks. "I've promised to save you, I couldn't back out if I wanted to. The only thing standing in my way is your familiar, who should by his very existence want nothing more than to protect you. It's not my fault he's terrible at it." 

"You really have a way to save him?" Derek demands. 

"I do," she says. "Listen to my heart—you can't be lied to, isn't that right?" 

"Except by a sociopath," Derek says. "They tend not to give themselves away." 

Amanda gives a slow grin. "I assure you, I can save him. Think about it like this, if it helps—witches, like werewolves, are stronger together than apart. I'm what you would call, in your vernacular, an omega, and I've been weakened because of it. Stiles and I will be stronger together, more than strong enough to cure him. I gain nothing if he is dead." 

"Woah, hold on, you didn't say anything about that," Stiles protests. 

"It changes nothing," Amanda assures him. "We will be connected on a non-physical level, you need not associate with me in person if you do not wish to. You might even remain with your pack, if that is your choice. Though it would be a strange one." 

"But, just so we're clear," Stiles asks. "You want us to what, start a coven?" 

"That is the common name," Amanda agrees. "The decision is not a hard one, Stiles. Without me you'll be dead." 

"I made him a similar offer, and he turned me down," Derek snaps. "So don't be so certain of that." 

Amanda laughs. "Ah, yes, well, your offer wouldn't have done him any good," she says. "Given at the right time, a bite from you could give Stiles incredible power, but it's unlikely he'd survive it at the moment. People like us don't react the same way to the bite as others do, and surviving the transformation takes great strength. My offer is a guarantee. Stiles will survive it." 

"Is this what you want?" Derek demands, glancing towards the floor at Stiles' feet instead of his eyes. 

"We don't have any other choice," Stiles tells him, and he still doesn't know how to explain that he knew he wouldn't have survived the bite even before Amanda had told them the same thing. He knows how it must look—like he trusts a stranger more than he trusts him. That he would bind himself to someone he barely knows, but he wouldn't bind himself to Derek. 

The truth doesn't really make him look much better anyway, so it's probably best he can't explain—because the truth is he'd risk a stranger, but he won't risk Derek. 

"We can't trust her," Derek says. "So we can't know what this will really do to you." 

"Was she lying when she said it would save me?" Stiles asks. 

"No," Derek tells him, though he's obviously reluctant to admit it. 

"Then we have to do it," Stiles says. He doesn't want to die, but it's more than just that. Amanda has made it clear she doesn't care for Derek—so Stiles is the only back up that he has here. This is the only way they're both getting out of this damn dungeon alive. 

He'll deal with the consequences when they come. 

"Do it," Stiles tells her. 

Amanda smiles, and holds out her hand. "Come to me, please," she says. "I'll just keep the barrier up, if you don't mind." 

Stiles reaches out and grabs her hand, and Derek releases him when she tugs him over the barrier. He sucks in a deep breath, trying not to notice the way Derek is still glaring at them both, his eyes burning red. "What do you need me to do, exactly?" he asks. 

"Belladonna was brought into existence by witches, it's magic itself, and it feeds off magic. So it can be a weapon either for or against us, do you understand?" she asks. 

"Not remotely," Stiles says. 

"Then think of it as a siphon," she says. "It's going to latch onto the nearest source of magic and drain it dry—but it does not have a mind of its own, it is merely a conduit, so it can as easily pull magic into you as it can take it out. It does not know the difference. The question is: do you?" 

"I'm going to go with no, or I probably wouldn't be dying right now," Stiles says. 

Amanda laughs. "You make a good point," she says. "But that's where I come in. I'm assuming you know how inoculations work? You're clever enough to know the disease is often the cure. Only wolfsbane can cure wolfsbane, and only magic can stop a curse. The Belladonna has left you open to the forces around us, but we can work that to your advantage, because those are the very same forces we need to save you."

"Right," Stiles says. "Just like Peter's analogy, after all, then. You can walk through an open door from either direction, right?" 

Amanda goes very still. "Peter?" she echoes. "Peter Hale?" 

"Peter Pan," Stiles says dryly, but Amanda's grip has tightened around his hand, and she turns to glare at Derek. 

"Your uncle lives?" she asks. "I had believed you killed him." 

"I did," Derek says tightly. 

"Does this really matter?" Stiles asks, but he's beginning to think it does, because Amanda's eyes are troubled when they turn back to his. 

"No," she says softly. "No, you're right. We should continue, but I must warn you, there is a price." 

"I thought I already did my part," Stiles protests, motioning towards her now healed wrist. 

"That was the price I asked," she says. "But what I speak of now is not a debt you will owe to me." 

"I really should have read all the fine print on this deal of yours, huh?" he asks dryly, and he feels like he's making a deal with the devil but he nods. "Okay, fine, whatever. No point stopping now." 

"What price?" Derek demands. 

"Nothing you will notice," Amanda says. "But we will need to call on forces stronger than us, and they always take something in return." 

"This isn't like, a life for a life thing, is it?" Stiles demands. "Because I saw an episode of _Supernatural_ once, where a faith healer cured Dean but some guy at a pool dropped dead—" 

"Nothing like that," she assures him. "What they will take, they will take from you." 

"Probably shouldn't find that reassuring, but let's proceed," Stiles says. 

"I don't like this," Derek snaps, slamming a hand angrily into the mountain ash barrier. 

"Close your eyes," Amanda tells him, and he does. "What do you see?" 

It's a strange question to ask someone with their eyes shut, but he knows at once what she means. He can see colors through the lids of his eyes, gold-ish green in front of him, bright red to his right. And surrounding it all is a haze of black, twisting around everything. 

"I'm not sure," Stiles answers. 

"Yes you are," she says. "Unravel it, separate it out, and pull your magic back through." 

It should be nonsense, but he can feel her guiding him to do it, brushing up against him. Her magic feels cold, like winter rain, and the poison feels like a wire—he can feel it dragging beneath his skin, and it reminds him of all those times he's dug bullets out of his friends. He's always imagined he could feel it, that metal beneath the skin, as he tugs it out. 

Then he feels Amanda grasp the end of the wire and pull it straight, and that's when he starts screaming. 

It's not pain exactly, it's too far past that. His nerve endings feel split and frayed, and his head is pounding like it's suddenly too big for his skull. He keeps his eyes shut even when Amanda tells him to open them, because he's afraid to look at himself. He went to an autopsy once with his dad for a school assignment, and had watched as the coroner had sliced the body open with a Y-incision and then spread the ribs apart so he could collect and weigh the insides one by one. 

That's what Stiles feels like now; like he's been torn open and measured and then hastily put all back together, carefully sewn back up along the seams.

Derek is screaming for him, but it's Amanda's voice he hears. "Take it back," she tells him, fiercely and fearless, and he knows at once what she means. 

He can see his magic spread all around him, scattered and useless, and lets out a long breath before taking it all back. 

It's a bit like imploding. 

He's gone supernova, he thinks, and laughs a little crazily. He keeps dragging in deep choking breaths but the black tinting his vision is gone, the pain is gone, and something else is in its place. Power, he realizes—power like he's never had, or never knew he had, pulsing through him and his heart is beating so fast he can hardly think. 

He opens his eyes then, and Amanda is smiling at him. He looks down at his arm, and pulls up the edge of the leather jacket to find that the black lines are gone. His skin is unmarked. 

"Welcome back," Amanda says, but he's not sure that's the right way to state it. 

He doesn't feel like he's back. He feels like he's never been here before—not really, not like this.

"Stiles?" Derek is shouting, has been shouting, he realizes, this whole time. But it doesn't occur to him to answer. 

Because he's not sure that's who he is.


	15. Deaton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you probably all hate me right now, because of that last cliffhanger and the fact that we won't see Stiles and Derek again until the next chapter. BUT—I promise, there's lots of answers here (for pull of the tide as well as this one), because Deaton probably should have been the first one the Sheriff talked to. I've pretty much crammed in as much exposition as possible here, so sorry in advance about that, but the action will pick up again with the next part! 
> 
> Also, apologies in advance for any mistakes. I probably should not be posting this at 2:00 AM on New Years whilst barely conscious, but I feel bad I didn't have the update finished this weekend!

"Going somewhere?" the Sheriff asks, his voice falsely polite. 

Deaton goes very still, his hand freezing half-way to the cupboard, where he's been grabbing things to stuff them into the duffle bag that's dangling from his other hand. The operating room looks like it's been robbed—things have been pulled out and stacked up and tossed on the floor.

"Sheriff," Deaton says hesitantly. 

Deaton has always been so serene. It's kind of always prickled at his cop-sense, that way he just smiled and calmly stated 'I have no idea what you're talking about' when it was so obvious he knew more than he said. The Sheriff has come to him before on cases, without strictly getting the proper clearance, because he knew that if anyone had the answers behind those animal attacks it would be Deaton.

"I asked if you were going somewhere," the Sheriff states simply. 

"Yes," Deaton says. "I'm needed for a house-call. It's quite urgent. So if you wouldn't mind—"

The Sheriff blocks his way when he moves to leave, bracing his hands on either side of the door. "This wouldn't have anything to do with my son, would it?" he demands. "And the hunters that are after him?"

Deaton pauses then, looking suddenly strangely relieved. "You know I'm involved, then," he says. "I knew you were at the hospital, but Stiles didn't tell me he'd told you everything." 

"He mentioned you, but Argent was the one that said I should talk with you," the Sheriff says. "He thought you might have a better idea about what's going on." 

"I just now found out Stiles was in trouble," Deaton says, setting the duffle bag on the table and then leaning against it. "I was heading to the Hale house to see if I could find him." 

"You're going to tell me everything first," the Sheriff says. "I should have been to see you as soon as I found out about this. I should have known Stiles still wasn't telling me everything." 

"In your son's defense, he doesn't know everything yet," Deaton says. "He's got quite a knack for research, but there's still enough misinformation out there that he hasn't put together the whole truth." 

"And you haven't told him?" he demands. 

"I thought we had more time," Deaton says. 

The Sheriff bites down on his own frustration, but that's really not an excuse he can say much against. He let Stiles get away with lying to him for months by telling himself he had the _time_. "Okay. So why don't you just start from the beginning then?" the Sheriff asks.

"Because we definitely don't have the time for that," Deaton says. "The best place to start is with the possession of Derek Hale, because that's when Stiles' powers really started coming in. Did he ever tell you what really happened that night?" 

"I was able to put most of it together," the Sheriff says. 

"He laid a trap for a very powerful spirit, and he nearly caught it," Deaton says. "He forced it from Derek Hale on faith alone. That kind of power—it draws attention, and what he did at the hospital…well, he shouldn't have been able to do that. I know witches that have been around much longer than him that couldn't have taken that spirit on alone." 

"What does any of this have to do with where he is now?" the Sheriff demands. 

"You said you wanted to know everything," Deaton reminds him. "This is _why_ Stiles is a target, and more than that, it's why he's such a threat." 

"Hold on right there," the Sheriff snaps, stepping forward. "Stiles has done nothing but help since he found out about all this." 

Deaton holds up a calming hand. "Let me finish," he says easily. "Because it isn't about what Stiles has done, it's about what he could do. Stiles is still human, he doesn't have enough of a grasp on his power to heal himself and I'm sure the hunters know it. I've been informed they've been watching him for weeks, correct? Have you wondered why they never just shot him?" 

"I figured they need it to look accidental, or make sure it wasn't public," the Sheriff snaps. "But, again, this isn't helping—" 

"It's because they're afraid of what he'll do to them if they try," Deaton interrupts. "They could have destroyed his body, but it wouldn't have ended there. That's the good news, because it means we might still have time to save him, but it only gets worse from there. Just what do you think it was, that possessed Derek Hale?" 

"I'm not really getting the connection," the Sheriff says impatiently. 

"If they'd killed Stiles, he would have become a spirit," Deaton explains. "Witches exist slightly outside of our world, so you can't just kill them and it's done. If they'd just executed Stiles, they would have only made him more powerful. And not some version of the Stiles we know and love, but all of that fire and that passion without restraint, without conscience or love. The only way to defeat a witch is to drain their magic; because they can't risk killing them while they have it, and they can't live without it." 

"Are you actually comparing my son to that _thing_ that tried to kill us in the hospital?" the Sheriff demands. 

"No, but I am saying she was probably like Stiles, once," Deaton says. "There's no way to know for sure who she was before, or even if she was a she—most of them have forgotten themselves. Everything has a price, Sheriff, and magic doesn't come cheap. The more of it we use, the more bound to this world we become. "

"Then we find him, and he stops," the Sheriff says. "He gives up magic."

"Once begun," Deaton says hesitantly, "there's no going back." 

All of the Sheriff's frustration and fear and anger surface, and he backs Deaton up against the table. "This is your fault," he accuses. "You started him down this road, knowing what would happen." 

"I only saw a spark," Deaton says. "It's not altogether uncommon. I've seen it in more than a few people in my life. It's all I have myself. I can create barriers, and I have some healing ability. It's extremely rare for anyone to be able to do more than that, so I had no idea just what I was unleashing." 

" _Unleashing_?" the Sheriff demands. "This is _my son_ , this isn't some creature you've got in your Bestiary. I didn't come here to find out how to vanquish him, I want to _save_ him." 

"I realize that," Deaton says. "I didn't mean to imply he was, and of course, not all spirits are evil. Some of them are the origins of stories of guardian angels or—" 

"I don't care about what might happen if Stiles _dies_ ," the Sheriff interrupts, "because it is _not going to happen_ , am I understood?" 

"Sheriff," Deaton says, sliding out from between the Sheriff and the table to pace across from him. "You have to consider the possibility that we might already be too late." 

"Derek's with him. He won't let him die," the Sheriff says with certainty. "He'd turn him first." 

"I don't know that it would even help," Deaton counters. "Werewolves and magic are like oil and water, they don't mix. Peter Hale is the only one I've ever heard of achieving anything with it—though in typical Hale fashion, he didn't do it halfway. But he's hardly the example I wanted to hold up for Stiles." 

"Are you saying Stiles would become like Peter, if he were to be turned?" the Sheriff demands, running a hand through his hair in agitation. 

"I'm saying he would be far more powerful than Peter," Deaton says. "I don't have any idea what he might become. Werewolves are just—it's how they identify, but it's not what they really are. They're shifters, and physically there's nothing limiting what they can become."

"You want to explain that one again?" the Sheriff asks.

Deaton sighs and leans back on the table. "Derek is a wolf, because that's what he is," he explains. "Those he has bitten are wolves because that's what he's told them they will be. But it doesn't have to be that way. If their perception of themselves is stronger than their perception of reality—well, I'm assuming you heard about the Kanima." 

"Are you trying to tell me Stiles would be a Kanima?" the Sheriff demands. 

"No, not at all," Deaton says. "I merely wanted to explain that shifters do not have to be wolves. Stiles most likely won't be if he's bitten, at least not all the time." 

"Because of his magic?" the Sheriff says. "Because you said Peter Hale has it too, and he's a werewolf." 

"Peter has power, but not Stiles' belief," he says. "What little belief he does have is wrapped up in his wolf; he could be nothing else. _Stiles_ could be anything. If I were to guess I'd say he'd become a shifter in its purest sense—and be capable of turning into anything he can imagine, though of course only something of a similar mass." 

"If it keeps him alive, I'm not seeing how it's a bad thing," the Sheriff snaps. 

"Let's just say it is a lot of power for one person," Deaton says, "and Stiles may already have too much. You saw what Isaac and Erica were like when they were first turned, and even Derek lost his way when he first became Alpha. That much power changes you." 

"It didn't change Scott or Boyd," the Sheriff argues. 

"Because Scott never wanted it, and Boyd only wanted it for the right reasons," Deaton says. "I'm not saying Stiles doesn't, but he doesn't even know how to use the power he already has. If he comes into his power too suddenly, I'm not sure what might happen."

"Have you even told him any of this?" the Sheriff demands. "Have you ever warned him?" 

"I told him he was more useful as he was," Deaton says. "Stiles is smart. He's always known the risks. He told me he didn't want to be turned, so I never worried about it." 

"Really? Because I'm pretty damn worried about it myself. It doesn't seem like he has any idea of the risks he's facing," the Sheriff snaps. "You could have warned him about what he was, that hunters might be coming for him." 

"You have to understand, I'm only just now seeing how badly I've misjudged Stiles' power," Deaton explains. "It's his control that kept me from realizing how much power he had, because most witches as powerful as he is can't keep their power contained. He had everything so tightly locked away that at first I wasn't even convinced he was powerful enough to pull off a simple mountain ash barrier." 

Deaton crosses his arms, staring at the surface of the table, and the Sheriff fights back the urge to demand more answers and lets him collect his thoughts. 

"I'm beginning to suspect it's a side-effect of the Adderall," he says finally, looking back up to meet the Sheriff's eyes. "Because Stiles doesn't have ADHD by any definition we'd find in a textbook. It's a common misdiagnosis for people like him. ADHD, low-latent inhibition, Asperger's—these have all been mistakenly attributed to those gifted with magic." 

"Okay," the Sheriff says, because yelling at what might have been done differently isn't going to do him any good now. "So if they can't shoot him, then what are they going to do?" 

"They'll try to strip him of his powers," Deaton says. "The only way I know of to do that is Belladonna poisoning." 

"Nightshade?" he asks in disbelief. "Will it kill him, or just take his powers? Because I'm starting to think he's better off without them." 

Deaton shakes his head. "Stiles is already too powerful, he isn't separate from his magic anymore," he says. "If he's already been infected, then there's nothing we can do." 

"There has to be a cure," the Sheriff insists. 

"There are none that I know of," Deaton says. "There are rumors that some have survived it, that somehow their magic was powerful enough to overcome it. Stiles is strong, but even he—well, it's only ever been successful within a coven. No one would be powerful enough to defeat it alone." 

"There's covens now?" the Sheriff asks in disbelief, not sure why he's even surprised. It was mostly rhetorical, but Deaton's cellphone is ringing before he can answer anyway.

"I have to take this," Deaton apologizes, before answering the call. "Deaton. Yes, I know. I haven't. But—you'll need my help. Yes, fine. I will. I doubt I'll be able to stop the Sheriff, however. He's standing right in front of me. Yes. I won't." 

"You going to tell me what that was about?" the Sheriff demands. 

"Stiles is still on the Hale estate," he tells him. "It looks like he and Derek have been cornered in an old bunker on the property." 

The Sheriff goes still, his breath catching—angry at himself, for having missed that his son was so close this whole time. Then he's thinking of Peter's words, _he could be six feet beneath where you stand, and you might never know it_ , and turns his anger onto him instead. Because if he finds out Peter has known all along, he's going to find a way to kill him for good. 

"Thank you," he tells Deaton hurriedly, as he backs away and prepares to leave.

"Good luck," Deaton calls after him. 

"You're not coming?" the Sheriff asks. 

"I've been asked to stay here and prepare for the worst," he explains reluctantly. "But someone much better suited to the task at hand is already on their way." 

"And who might that be?" he asks.

"They'll show themselves if they choose to," Deaton says. "But it isn't my place to say." 

"You know," the Sheriff laughs. "I'm getting really fed up with all these secrets." 

"Sheriff," Deaton says wearily, "our secrets are the only reason we're still alive."


	16. Stiles and Derek 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another update, because I feel really bad about that last Derek and Stiles cliffhanger and I wanted to get this posted for New Years! We're almost to the end, folks, only four parts left. ~~Assuming I don't make this a trilogy~~. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me thus far!

It's not that he's forgotten anything, because he remembers it all. 

If anything, there is even more clarity to his memories now than there had been before. He can close his eyes and he can see his mother's face, every single feature exactly as it should be, in a way he hasn't been able to recreate since before she died. It's like he's been digitally remastered. He's Stiles 2.0.

He laughs as he looks down at his hands. "What am I?" he asks. 

"You're a witch," Amanda tells him gleefully. 

"Who am I?" he demands, looking up at her. 

"You're still Stiles," she says. "I know it can be disorienting." 

"Disorienting," he laughs, and he can hear Derek's low growling where he's pacing at the edge of the cell. "I've never seen things clearer than I do right now." 

He looks down where Amanda still holds his hand, and he can almost see the magic, dancing from his fingers to hers and back again, like a waning tide. Her magic is pressing back against him just as insistent as his own, and he was right before. It feels like winter. 

"Why does your magic feel different?" he asks her, turning her hand up to examine the palm.

"Our magic is as unique as we are," she says. "Yours isn't the same as mine, but that's what will make us strong. Unless, of course, you still wish to stay with your pack?" 

The pack. Stiles can close his eyes and see his memories of them, and he can see himself like he's watching someone else, and he doesn't like who he is when he's with them. He was the sidekick with them—forever seated on the bench. He fought for them all so hard, and what had they ever done for him?

"No," he says, releasing her hand. "I don't want that." 

"Good," Amanda says. "Then charm your familiar, and we will begin." 

"Charm my…" he echoes, glancing towards Derek. Derek's eyes are blazing, his low level growling having continued almost unnoticed. Stiles runs his eyes over him, frowning as he sees some of his hairs have been singed from pushing too hard at the mountain ash. 

Stiles had always made sure the mountain ash under his own control wouldn't harm him. 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. "Don't listen to a word she says." 

"You can't allow him his higher functions, of course," Amanda tells him. "I promised he would live, so we will let him live, but as a wolf. He is your protector, it is his place. He'll be happier that way, anyway." 

"You want me to turn him into a wolf?" he asks in bewilderment, and he frowns down at his own hands. He can feel his magic thrumming through him, and he wonders if this is how it's supposed to feel. 

Like he's a time bomb. 

Amanda impatiently motions him to stand. "Do it quickly, or I will," she says. "We have to take out the hunters before they realize we're still here." 

"No," Stiles says slowly, rising to his feet to stand in front of Derek. 

Because Stiles remembers Derek too. 

He remembers Derek's words, but more than that, his actions. Scott had all kinds of pretty words of friendship and bonds and _they're bros_ , but he never answered his fucking phone. 

Derek always came when he called. _Always_. 

"You don't touch him," Stiles says. "I want your promise that you will do nothing to him."

Amanda smiles at him, some attempt to be disarming, but Stiles can feel her power still, held suspended but ready to strike. "Of course," she says. "He is yours to do with what you want. It doesn't matter to me."

There's something wrong about the way she states it, because Derek isn't a _possession_ , but he doesn't argue it. His point has been made, and Amanda will listen because she needs him. He knows she needs him, because now he can see very clearly just how much stronger he is than her. 

"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds kind of broken. 

Stiles flinches but doesn't turn to face him. "How do we stop the hunters?" he asks. 

"That's the easy part," Amanda says, grinning slyly. "I just need you to close your eyes and find them for me. I'll do the rest." 

"Astral projection," Stiles sighs. "Seriously?" 

"You can do it," Amanda tells him, and there's an undertone of bitterness to her words that gets beneath his skin. "You have the range." 

"And you don't," Stiles realizes. 

"I have power enough to stop them if that's what you're worried about," she snaps, stepping closer to him. 

"Stop them, meaning what, exactly?" Stiles asks. 

"They're murderers, Stiles," she says. "You think your pet hunters the Argents were bad? These men hunt children, and they don't care how young they are when they find them. They don't care if they even know what powers they have. They stalk them and poison them, and all the time they think themselves heroes." 

Stiles feels sick, because he knows, somehow, that she's telling him the truth. Maybe it's the way Derek's growl from behind him notches up into feral territory. He asks anyway, because he has to be sure. "Is she lying?" 

"No," Derek says reluctantly. "But I'll take care of them, if you just let me out." 

"He could be hurt," Amanda tells him easily, drawing Stiles' attention back to her. "We can strike them down without leaving this room." 

"Tell me what I have to do," Stiles says. 

"Close your eyes, and seek them out," she says, weaving their right hands together. 

Stiles feels a jolt when their fingers entangle, like a jumpstart, and he's soaring the moment he closes his eyes. It's not like flying, not like Amanda said it would be. Instead he's just suddenly somewhere else, and all he sees are impressions—flashes of a pair of eyes, a riflescope, the steady sound of a heartbeat. "Found you," Stiles whispers, and then Amanda's power is coursing through him before he can take his next breath. 

It's a little like being encased in ice. The chill goes through him and then the man is screaming, and he's screaming too, because it feels like he's being hollowed out. Phantom hands are pressing down inside of him, gathering everything up and pulling until it's out. He tears himself out of Amanda's grip, but he knows the man is already dead, because he gets one last look at his wide empty eyes before the connection breaks. 

"Oh god," he gasps, dragging in air as he falls to his hands and knees. 

Amanda kneels down in front of him. "I suppose I should have warned you about that, huh?" she asks wryly. "But don't worry, you only felt what happened to him. It didn't happen to you." 

"Get away from him," Derek growls. "Or I will kill you." 

"You can do nothing to me," Amanda sneers, as she gets back to her feet. Stiles tracks her movements as he tries to steady his breathing. 

He knows she's right, that the pain is just a phantom, but it had been so _real_. He's balancing on the edge of a panic attack. 

"You don't understand what powers we have," Amanda continues, stopping an inch away from her barrier. "You could not comprehend it. I could turn you inside out without touching you, and very soon so could Stiles. He has outgrown you." 

Stiles watches as Derek squats down, ignoring Amanda in favor of trying to get his attention. "Stiles, I need you to listen to me," he says firmly. "This isn't you, you wouldn't want this." 

"I wouldn't?" he asks, choking out a laugh as he backtracks through his memories. Because all he remembers is saying they ought to leave Derek to die, and Peter going up in flames, and his certainty that Jackson would need to be put down. "Really, are you sure? Because I think this is exactly what I would do." 

"I'm not saying you wouldn't kill if you had to," Derek says. "I'm saying you don't have to." 

Amanda turns away from Derek, dropping back down beside Stiles. "There's only one other, Stiles, and then it's over," she says. "Give me your hand." 

It would be so easy to do, Stiles knows. Just a few more minutes of agonizing pain and one more dead hunter and they'd be safe. The world would be better off without these men, right? They weren't anything like Chris Argent, and he was bad enough. 

He starts to reach out, but Derek's voice stops him. "Please," he says, and he never says please, not ever, not when he means it. "Just listen to me, okay? Because I know you, Stiles, and this isn't you." 

"I think he's listened to you quite enough," Amanda sneers, and she snaps a hand around in front of her, the force of her invisible blow knocking Derek into the opposite wall. Stiles stiffens, but before he can react Derek is already changing. 

Derek's eyes bleed to red, and his clothes begin to tear at their seams as fur rises up to take their place. He lets out a sound of pain and then he's morphed completely, leaving in his place a sleek black wolf. Stiles sucks in a breath, because it's an amazing thing to behold. He's never seen Derek change this completely before, and he looks majestic, nothing like Peter had—he's large and terrifying and the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. 

He expects Derek to be able to do anything like this, but he's whimpering instead, his eyes the only part of him still defiant as he shrinks back against the corner of the room. Stiles follows his gaze back to Amanda, who is still holding her hand up in his direction. 

That's when he realizes Derek hasn't changed by choice. 

"He won't trouble us anymore," Amanda says, in a tone he suspects is meant to be reassuring. She lowers her hand and looks back at him. "Now, back to business." 

He can hardly hear her, because Derek whimpers and its like it snaps the world back into place. All of his phantom pain washes away as his mind clears, and he draws himself back up to his feet. He can feel Amanda now, and knows she has wrapped herself around his magic, as well as his mind. 

He can feel her and he knows just how to unravel her from around him—because she's the one that taught him how. 

"Stiles, what—" she starts, stumbling back a step. 

"You shouldn't have done that," he tells her, and all the mountain ash in a fifty mile radius up and burns to nothing at his command. He hears Derek's low growl as the wolf stalks out of the cell and comes to stand beside him, his teeth bared, and his eyes burning red. He's so large that the tips of his ears rise up past Stiles' elbow.

"You can't harm me," Amanda says, but he can tell she isn't certain. "We've been bound together."

"What was that you said about promises?" Stiles asks.

She goes pale, her back hitting the wall behind her as she runs out of space. "That they're not easy to break," she whispers. 

Stiles' power gathers around him like a storm. It's in his head, in his heart, in the tips of his fingernails. More than anything, though, it's in Derek standing beside him. 

And that's when he knows that he doesn't need Amanda like she needs him, because he's never been in this alone.

"You really should have kept the one you made to me," he says.


	17. Ms. Morrell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, but I've been a bit out of sorts! I wanted to have the Stiles and Amanda confrontation part up this weekend too, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen that quick. It should be up by next weekend at the latest, however! Thank you to everyone for your feedback and support, I'm still toying around with ideas for a third installment, though I'm not sure if I want to make that commitment yet. 
> 
> But if I _do_ , I'm thinking of giving Stiles the acting detective part the next time around, with the Sheriff and Derek being held captive somewhere together. Because he'd be a magic bamf detective, and I'm just not sure I can resist that.

The dust has settled at the Hale estate, and the daylight brings the whole thing into sharp relief. Stiles' Jeep looks mostly unharmed, though the front fender is dented and it's covered in a thin film of dirt. The Sheriff doesn't exactly know where to start, and it would probably have helped if he'd brought Scott along to pinpoint exactly where Stiles and Derek were. 

Except that he wasn't going to bring a kid into this, no matter that he could heal from most of the ways he could be hurt. It's his job to get these kids out of trouble, not drag them along. 

So he's going to have to find them the old fashioned way. 

He heads out behind the house first, looking for any markings or clearings that might be hiding a door. He doesn't find one, but he does find a strange little circle of blue flowers that he's sure hadn't been there when he was last here. He frowns and steps closer, recognizing the plant from a print out in the folder Stiles had made him. He had presented him with the binder, lovingly titled, "Things You Ought To Know About Werewolves And Other Creatures You Don't Think Exist," a few weeks ago so he could brush up on his supernatural know-how. 

He hasn't looked at most of it, to be honest, but wolfsbane has two whole pages to itself that are pretty hard to miss, so he's certain he's right when he guesses that's what it is. And if it's wolfsbane, it's unlikely that Derek has planted the stuff himself. 

He approaches the flowers slowly, and that’s when he sees the curled fingers at the edge of the flowerbed, and the dead, open eyes staring up at him from the center. His heart clenches for a moment but he realizes almost at once that it isn't Stiles. The dead man is in his late thirties, with a slight beard that's mostly obscured by the flowers. The Sheriff places a hand on his holster and checks the clearing, but no one else is in view so he kneels down. 

He can see a rifle in the man's hands, with vines and flowers twisted all around it like they've been growing here for years. 

He starts to reach for his phone, and that small moment of distraction nearly costs him everything. Something crashes into the back of his head and he goes tumbling into the poisonous flowers. His vision blurs as he tries to get his balance back, but he's still able to make out the figure standing above him. It's another hunter, lifting the gun he'd used to knock him down to aim it straight at his chest. 

"Where's the witch?" the man demands. 

He tries to think of something to stall him, but before he can even open his mouth the point of an arrow breaks through the hunter's upper arm. The gun drops from his hand as he turns to stare at the arrow in disbelief, and then he's dropping beside his partner in the flowers. 

The Sheriff fights to get to his feet, pulling out his gun swiftly to aim at him, but the hunter's eyes are glassy and he's eerily still for such a minor wound. He spins around to glance in the other direction, and he doesn't see the mysterious archer at first. He does hear a little huff of laugher, and then someone is dropping from the trees. 

It's a young woman, but it is not, thankfully, Allison Argent. 

She's wearing all black and she's familiar in an out of context way that takes him a moment to puzzle out. The school, he realizes. He's seen her at his son's school. Not as a student, but as the guidance counselor. 

Ms. Morrell. 

"The arrow is enchanted," Morrell explains without being asked, apparently unconcerned with the gun the Sheriff has pointed at her. "If I shoot it with the intent to kill, then it kills no matter where it hits." 

"You're a witch," the Sheriff realizes, and he doesn't know what his life has become that he's using that phrase literally, and not as some sort of bizarre insult.

"Yes," she admits. 

"Is anyone at that school actually just there to teach my son?" the Sheriff demands.

"I was there to teach him. The only reason I came here was to recruit Stiles and Lydia Martin," she explains. "And trust me, Sheriff, you want my help." She flashes a sly grin. "I'm the good witch in this story." 

"You're Deaton's source," the Sheriff realizes, reluctantly lowering his gun. "You're the one that told him Stiles was here." 

"We have a history," Morrell agrees. "And I only told him so he'd stay away. I would have kept you out of it too, if there was a way to do it without hurting you, because that is, I believe, the one thing Stiles would never forgive." 

"Then you don't know him as well as you think," the Sheriff says. "There are lots of things that Stiles wouldn't forgive, and that's only one of them." The Sheriff runs a tired hand down his face before looking back at her. "So the Martin girl is a witch too?" 

"I'm not sure what Lydia is, because I've never heard of anyone like her before," she explains. "She's immune to magic of any kind, though she can be a vessel for it. It makes her very useful, but I decided to cut my losses on recruiting her. She doesn't play well with others." 

"And Stiles?" the Sheriff demands.

"It's not so simple for Stiles," she says slowly. "He doesn't really get a choice. He's too powerful to be left unchecked." 

"Meaning what exactly?" the Sheriff asks. He keeps his voice controlled, but he is careful to watch her hands and make sure they don't stray too close to her bow. His own hands are aching to lift his gun again. 

"He can't stay here, Sheriff," she says calmly. "He needs to be with others like him." 

"And you really think I’m going to let you take my son?" he asks incredulously. 

"If you want to keep him alive, then yes," she says lightly, stepping closer to him. She's not the most imposing person he's ever gone up against, but he knows her looks are deceiving. He's just watched her kill a man and he already knows it wasn't her first.

"Why should I trust you?" the Sheriff asks, running his eyes over her rather distinctive quiver of arrows. Their stems are made of wood, the points obsidian, the ends decorated with peacock feathers. "You say you're a _good witch_ , but you're the one that killed Harris." 

He expects her to deny it, but she only sighs. "He was a threat to Stiles, and it's my first priority to make sure he's protected," she says. "I didn't want to kill Harris, I tried to find another way, but it's my hesitation to do what had to be done that has put Stiles in danger now. I hadn't realized anyone else knew what he was. I got careless." 

"You're talking about the hunters," the Sheriff guesses. 

"The hunters don't concern me. The werewolves and Chris Argent can handle them," Morrell says. "Right now he's with someone far more dangerous." 

"How do you know?" he asks. 

She nods to the body that has been shrouded in wolfsbane. "That's not my work," she says. "That is very dark magic, and it's meant as a warning. For the wolves, and probably for me." 

"There's another witch?" he snaps, as if things weren't already out of hand.

"Yes," she says. "I've been tracking her since she got here, but the Lancres captured her. I thought they'd take care of her for me, but they've never been very bright. She obviously made a bargain with them—it's what she's known for. And from the looks of things, she's made one with Stiles too, because she couldn't have killed that man on her own. Not from such a distance." 

"Stiles wouldn't kill someone," the Sheriff snaps, stalking towards her. "And I'm getting pretty sick of people telling me that my son is dangerous. I know what my son is capable of. I know him better than anyone." 

"If he's bargained with her," she says calmly, "then even you might not recognize him when we find him." 

"What are you saying? That he's under some spell?" he asks. 

"Not strictly speaking, because she wouldn't be powerful enough to enchant him," Morrell says. "Stiles has a very special form of magic—it's essentially unlimited, but Stiles has been careful, and only ever called on it when he's needed it. To have his system flooded with his power, it would…well, it would be the equivalent of an LSD overdose. He won't be able to handle it." 

"You don't know Stiles," the Sheriff insists. "Whatever happens, he'll be fine." 

"I hope you're right," she says. "But if she's got her hooks in him, then there's only one way to be sure he gets free." 

"You're going to kill her," he realizes. "You think I can let you go in there planning murder? You've already killed two people right in front of me. By all rights I should have you in cuffs." 

"But you don't, because you need me to save Stiles," she says, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. "You can always arrest me later." 

The Sheriff in him doesn't want to let her get away with any of this. He'll give her the hunter, because in killing him she'd saved his life. But Harris had been helpless and in his custody when she'd shot him down, and he had no idea if anything she's told him about this other witch is even true. 

But the father in him knows he's never going to find Stiles in time on his own. 

"I'll hold you to that," he says after a moment. "Do you know where he is?" 

"No," she says. "Something's happened to block them from me, I suspect Stiles is doing it whether he means to or not. But I guess it's a good thing you showed up after all, because you've brought me a way to find them." 

She reaches out to him and he tenses, his fingers flexing around his gun. Her movements aren't threatening, however, so he just watches as she reaches into his chest pocket and pulls out the wolf tooth necklace. She holds it by the strand in front of her eyes, and smiles wryly. 

"This carries her magic," she explains. "It belongs to her, and it will want to return to its owner. It just needs a little encouragement." 

She presses her eyes shut and holds the necklace out in front of her, delicately held between her forefinger and thumb. It begins to spin, the force of it sending her hair flying out behind her. It stops just as suddenly, and then the necklace is laying flat against the air, pointing them north-east like the hand of a compass. 

He's seen a lot since he walked into that hospital room and watched Stiles take down a seemingly unstoppable spirit with nothing but his own belief, but this is the first time he's really seen _visible_ magic, spinning right in front of him, and Morrell just acting like it's no big thing. 

Stiles would love this, he thinks. Stiles could _do this_. 

"This way," she says, and starts walking in the direction it points. 

He frowns as he follows her, still not quite trusting her. He wants to call Deaton to confirm her story but he can't risk it while she's here, and he doesn't want to let her out of his sight. "Why did you have to kill Harris?" he asks, watching her carefully for a reaction. 

She doesn't give him one. "We have our own secret society, and in that regard we're not so different from hunters or werewolves," she explains. "We know people in high places that will help us keep our secrets safe, but we have no choice but to live outside the law. Whether you like it or not, that's just how it is. You could hardly have put Harris on trial for what it was he really did." 

"I could have put him on trial for being an accessory to attempted murder," he snaps. "And he might have helped me find Stiles." 

"That he was going to lead someone to Stiles was exactly my concern," she snaps. "Witches with good intentions aren't the only ones in high places, and you might not have been the only one to ask for information in return for a deal. Harris knew far too much, and he would have spoken our secrets to anyone that asked." She stops for a moment to turn and face him, though the tooth keeps tugging impatiently at the strand, trying to lead them further into the trees. 

"You have to understand, this witch found Stiles, and I'm sure she's just the first of many that will want to use him," Morrell says. "He's no longer safe here. He needs to be with people that can protect him, and he needs to be taught to protect himself." 

The Sheriff bites back his immediate protest, because it isn't as though he hasn't thought of doing something similar himself. When he first sat at his son's bedside right after they'd carried that woman out, he'd been planning to pack up whatever they needed and take Stiles and just run. He couldn't think of any way they would be able to stay, with all this madness. He just wanted his son safe. 

But then Stiles had opened his eyes, and told him the truth—he'd told him of all the good he had done, and he'd been simultaneously so terrified and proud of his son, and all thoughts of running had left his mind. 

Because Stilinskis didn't run, and if he sometimes forgot that, Stiles was always there to remind him.

"The only way we are safe, the only way _your son_ is safe," she continues fervently, "is if no one knows what we are. I did you a favor, whether you're willing to accept it or not." 

The Sheriff doesn't know if he can accept it—there isn't anything he wouldn't do for Stiles, but there's always a line on what's _necessary_. Harris wasn't an innocent by any means, but he'd been killed for what he _could_ have done, and that wasn't any different than what these rogue hunters were doing. 

"Sheriff, please understand—" she starts, but breaks off as the necklace rips free from her hand. She starts after it at once, the Sheriff right on her heels as it crashes to the ground a few feet away. 

They come to a stop and look down. It's a pair of old wooden doors set in the ground, and there are bloody handprints all along one edge. The necklace rests against it, vibrating angrily as it tries to break through. Morrell whispers something and it stills, and she picks it up and places it in her pocket. 

The Sheriff lets her keep it, because he doesn't really want to carry around a possessed tooth. But when Morrell reaches for the door, that's when he moves, reaching out to grab her wrist. "If we're doing this together," he says firmly, "I'm going to need you to play by my rules. And that means we don't kill her unless we have to." 

"Of course," Morrell says, twisting out of his grip to pull open the door. She adjusts her bow in front of her, and strings an arrow so it's ready to fire before glancing back at him. "But, Sheriff, we will have to." 

He nods his assent, because if this witch has harmed his son—well, Morrell won't be the only one gunning for her.


	18. Stiles and Derek 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance that this is going to be cliffs till the end again! But I'm still not sure if there will be a third story, so I plan to tie this one off as well as I possibly can. You guys are definitely giving me all kinds of ideas for a third installment, though, but I have kind of gotten wrapped up in writing a Fill incognito over on the teenwolf-kinkmeme, so I think I'm going to have to at least get that one done before I start a third story for this series. This story is still on schedule, though! I should hopefully have it finished in the next two weeks, at the most.

Stiles has never felt rage like this before. 

He's been grief-stricken and terrified, he's been lost and elated—but he's never felt anything like this. It bubbles up inside him like a living thing, tingling all beneath his skin. He can feel it seeping out of him into the air, bit by bit, but for once he isn't trying to keep it in. 

Because she hurt _Derek_. 

Derek, who has lost so much, and will never stop trying to atone for it. Derek likes to pretend he doesn't care, but as much as Stiles loves his words he knows actions speak louder. Derek has fought for them all, and he didn't have to. Derek needed his pack to be strong, but he still only ever bit those that were already broken, hoping to fix them somehow. 

Stiles knows Derek better than he knows himself. Derek has always saved him, and tried to protect him, and he's been there when he needed him, every single time, in a way no one else ever has. Stiles has been there for his father, and he's been there for Scott, but Derek is the only one that's always been there for _him_ ,

The walls begin to shake with his every remembrance. The foundations start to crack as the walls fight against his hold, and plaster dust is sprinkling down on them from the unvarnished ceilings like a snowfall. He can see the numerous, tiny little cracks crawling out along the wall behind Amanda, reaching out like fingers as the stones snap as easily as tinder. 

"Stiles," Amanda says, holding out an appeasing hand. "I haven't broken my word, because he hasn't been harmed. Look at him, he's fine. You have to stop this." 

It only makes him angrier that she doesn't even realize what it is she's done. Derek growls lowly beside him, still trapped in his wolf form. Stiles reaches out for the magic wrapped around the werewolf, but he can't focus enough to break it and bring him back. 

"Change him back," he tells her, and he's surprised how _normal_ he sounds, beneath the creak of all those breaking stones. 

"No," Amanda says, and tilts her head back in defiance. She straightens and steps forward, careful not to lose her balance as the entire bunker tries to shake loose from the earth. "This is a lesson you need to learn. He's holding you back." 

"Then you should be grateful," Stiles tells her. "You don't want to face me when I'm not holding back." 

Amanda grins. "You're finally getting it, aren't you? You're realizing just how powerful you are," she says. "Maybe some day you'll understand I'm doing this for your own good—because if you're already going to punish me for breaking my word, then there's nothing to stop me from breaking it again." 

Derek seems to know what's she's going to do before Stiles, because he growls and moves in front of him. His lips pull back from his barred teeth, but the moment he leaps towards Amanda she throws out a hand and sends him crashing into the wall. Stiles shouts out a protest and his magic reacts enough to send a split along the concrete floor, but he still can't prevent Derek from hitting the stones with enough force to make some cracks of his own. 

Stiles watches as Derek struggles for a second before going limp, and his rage gets washed away by his panic. He feels like he's lost anchor. He turns back to Amanda, and he wants nothing more than to stop her, but he doesn't know how. He has all this power at his fingertips and no way to _harness it_. He has to _think_ , because that's always been his greatest weapon. 

The flashy stuff is cool, but it isn't _him_. His mind is clearing now the more he separates himself from Amanda's hold, and he clenches his hands to fists as he turns again to face her. Derek needs Stiles now, not whoever Amanda is trying to turn him into. 

"You have so much natural talent, so much untapped power," she says wryly, giving him a lop-sided grin like she knows exactly what he's thinking, "but you don't know how to use it. I can teach you, Stiles. It's why I came to find you." 

"You don't know anything," he snaps, and he feels a little flicker, the slightest presence of power, as he sees Derek's tail twitch out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want anything to do with you. You broke our deal, so we're done." 

Stiles starts towards her, but she's quicker. He barely has time to gather his strength into a spell and he's flying back through the air, crashing into the wall all the way at the other end of the cell. His mind goes white with pain, spots crowding in to cloud his vision as he lets out a choking cough and slides to the ground. He tries to get his arms underneath him so he can stand, but he loses his balance and collapses back to the floor. 

"I will have your power, one way or another," she says. He can hear her footsteps drawing closer, and that's when he sees it. 

The cat's-eye stone is lying forgotten on the floor, just a foot away. 

He wraps his hand around it as Amanda grabs his jacket and uses it to flip him around onto his back. He lets out a pained cry, because he can feel the stone searing itself into his skin, sucking all his magic out from the air. 

It's too late to let go now even if he wanted to, so he has no choice but to follow through with his plan. Amanda holds out her hand for another spell and he strikes out and grabs it, forcing their palms together, with the stone held between them. He winds his fingers between all of hers and then clamps down until the stone is just as far into her as it is into him. 

He's losing access to his power fast, but so is she. 

She lets out a shout of outrage, before slamming his hand hard into the stone floor. He winces at the pain, but there's no way she's pulling free. The stone is drawing them both in, holding them together like a magnet. She can't break it alone, and he's not sure if he could, either. 

It's an inconvenient stalemate, but it's the best he can manage at short notice. 

"You little fool," she snaps. "You've crippled us both." 

Stiles laughs, and it tastes like copper. "Yeah, we're pretty much screwed," he agrees. 

"You could separate us," she says. "You're strong enough." 

"Maybe," Stiles says. "But right now I'm kind of focused on keeping you powerless." 

"Because if you cannot save yourself, you wish to at least save him?" she asks, nodding towards where Derek lay in a broken pile of limbs. "How do you not see how very insignificant he is? He is an animal, Stiles. A _pet_." 

Stiles bites his lip to hold back a scream as another wave from the stone pulses through them. He glances to the side and can see the blood seeping out from where their hands are pressed together. 

"Would you really die for him?" she asks, and she sounds honestly bewildered. 

Stiles lays his head back on the concrete and closes his eyes, letting the pain wash through him. It's not entirely unlike the Belladonna poisoning—except instead of slowly draining him, this is taking everything at once. He's never felt anything like it. 

But he knows he'd do it all again, just to keep her focus on him.

"I love him," he says, and opens his eyes, because it's really that simple. The pain that has been dancing across his nerves retreats a little, giving him just enough space to breathe.

"Then you really are a fool. He is _nothing_ compared to us," she says. "You know what I did with my familiar when I was your age? I took an axe and worked away at him until I'd cut him in half, and then I ripped out his teeth one by one to make myself charms. It was sort of a rite of passage, like taking off the training wheels." 

"You're sick," Stiles tells her, trying to push up and away from her. "No, really, there's something seriously wrong with you. There's actually a psychiatrist I'd like to refer you to." 

"I'm _strong_ ," she snaps, slamming him back down against the concrete with a strange, impassive glare. "I've been hunted all my life, by such insignificant creatures. All I've ever wanted is an equal, someone to _be with_. You were supposed to—" 

"I was supposed to what?" Stiles asks, laughing incredulously. "Love you?" 

"Yes," she agrees, running her free hand down his face. It's intimate and strange, so gentle that it doesn't make any sense. "And you will. If not in this life, then when I summon your spirit from the next."

"You can't do anything to me," Stiles says, though he stops fighting her hold. "Neither of us can use magic right now." 

"Who said anything about using magic?" she asks, reaching behind her to pull a switchblade from her waistband. She snaps it open and Stiles stills when he sees the Belladonna stains along the blade's edge. 

"You're the one that poisoned me," he whispers, and he can't even find the strength to be surprised.

"Well, I told you I made a bargain with those hunters, and I had to keep up my end," she tells him. "They agreed to let me go if I would strike you down with Belladonna. It wasn't even that hard to convince them, because they were scared of getting too close to you. They didn't know me well enough to be scared of me." 

"Yeah, well, I think you've corrected them of that particular misconception," Stiles says. "You nearly killed us all when you destroyed Derek's house." 

"You still don't remember, do you?" she asks curiously. "Even though all the signs are right in front of you, even though you nearly tore this bunker apart with your little tantrum, you still don't remember." 

Stiles wants to protest that he doesn't know what she's talking about, but he's afraid that he does. He swallows hard, trying not to think that far back. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. 

"I didn't bring the house down on top of us," she explains, sliding down him a little to bring them face-to-face. She grins slowly. "You did." 

Stiles knows she isn't lying, though he still has to bite back his instinctive denial. She just looks pleased with herself, as she leans close enough to kiss, like she's enjoying taking from him the last thing he has—his very fragile control. 

"I sliced open your arm, and your eyes clouded over with white. You were just staring at the wound, and the whole world started to shake." She laughs lightly, and the only thing he can focus on is her strange, grey eyes. "I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life." 

And then he remembers it all—in that clear Technovision nightmare that his memories have become. He remembers the world had gone white-washed and his mind had cleared the way it only ever did when he took twice his regular dose of Adderall. The moment the Belladonna had hit his bloodstream all of his magic had rushed to his defense, before exploding out of him with enough force to drag the last remnants of Derek's house raining down on them all.

"It's a shame I'll never get to see it again," she tells him. "I'll have to console myself by making a necklace of your boyfriend's lovely teeth." 

Stiles knows he has no choice but to fight—for him, and for Derek, so he braces himself to try and push her off, but he never gets the chance. There's an inhuman snarl, and then teeth are clamping down on the crease between Amanda's shoulder and her neck, and she's getting torn from him so violently he loses a chunk of skin from the palm of his hand. Stiles scrambles to push himself up as Derek and Amanda hit the ground. Derek twists her violently in his grip until she goes still with a sickening snap. 

Stiles lifts himself up on his knees and looks over at her. She's got blood all along one side, looking like she had the first time he ever saw her. He sees her palm twitch and notices that the cat's-eye stone is still embedded within it. Stiles sucks in a deep breath as his own magic comes rushing back in fast enough to make him dizzy. He still feels drained, though he can access it again. He lets it flow in and out, humming around him sedately, instead of taking so much in that he won't be able to think again.

Then he searches the room for Derek, and finds him crouched in the corner of the cell. His fur is matted through with blood, and he still hasn't changed back. Stiles had hoped that maybe, this would have broken the spell.

"Derek," he whispers. 

The wolf watches him warily, his crimson eyes at half-mast. Stiles approaches slowly, hesitantly holding out a hand, and lets out a breath when Derek doesn't move away. He runs his hand hesitantly across his nose, back and behind his ear, and he can feel the magic seeping out through the tips of his fingers. 

Stiles pulls back quickly when Derek lets out another whimper of pain, but whatever he's done has already been done. The bones begin to shift beneath Derek's fur and skin, breaking and then mending again. The fur disappears, tugged back inside by its roots, as his skin pales and clears. 

"Hey," he breathes, not sure what to do now that Derek is himself again, naked and covered in blood and only inches away from him. Stiles can see rows of tiny wounds scattered up his side and back that haven't quite healed, and when Derek finally looks up, his eyes are still dark red. 

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks, but when he reaches out again, Derek flinches and Stiles pulls back. He lets out a breath, but keeps his distance. "Derek, are you alright?" 

Derek just watches him, and before Stiles can say anything else he hears his father's voice. "Stiles! Stiles, where—" 

It's so surreal that he's not sure he hasn't imagined it at first. His father keeps calling his name, though, so Stiles glances towards the doorway with disbelief. "Dad?" 

The Sheriff rushes into the room, glancing warily at Amanda before casually sidestepping her body in order to get to him. He checks Derek over for a moment, but then he's dragging Stiles to his feet in the next, and pulling him in for a hug. 

"Thank god you're alright," he says, before glancing at Derek and quickly away again. He sounds less certain when he adds, "Both of you." 

Stiles pulls away and moves in front of his father and Derek when someone else rushes into the room, but he's so startled to see his guidance counselor that he's thrown into a rare state of speechlessness. 

Ms. Morrell just gives a curt nod before dropping down beside Amanda, and laying her bow on the ground. "Good," she says. "She's still alive." 

"Okay, first off," Stiles says, stepping forward as he finds his voice. "What are you doing here? And second, what the hell?"

"Language," the Sheriff snaps, but Stiles ignores him. 

Ms. Morrell looks over at him. "I will explain it to you later," she says. "Right now I need your help if we're going to stop her." 

"She looks pretty well stopped," Stiles says. 

"Yes, and the moment she dies, we lose our upper hand at keeping her here," Ms. Morrell snaps. "Or do you want a repeat of what happened in that hospital?" 

Suddenly Amanda's comment about using him in the next life makes a lot more sense, and Stiles feels sick. "What?" he whispers. "What do you want me to do?" 

"The same thing you did then," she snaps. "We don't have much time." 

"Dad," Stiles starts, glancing over at Derek in concern.

"I'll stay with Derek," the Sheriff promises, already pulling off his coat to drape it over the werewolf as he gently nudges Stiles towards Ms. Morrell. 

Stiles drops down beside Ms. Morrell and stares at Amanda with a mixture of horror and dread and guilt, because yeah, she was a bit psycho but she was also the first person like him he'd ever really met. 

He thinks she tries to say something, but her throat is half torn open and all that comes out of her mouth are little bubbles of her blood, rising up to stick to her lips. He can't make out any of the words. 

"Whatever you did to trap that spirit in its body at the hospital, I need you to do it again now," Ms. Morrell tells him calmly, in the same tone of voice she might have asked _and what do you see now_ as she held up a Rorschach at school. 

"How do you know about that?" Stiles demands. 

"I told you, we'll talk later," she insists. "You have to do this now before it's too late." 

"I think we can trust her," his dad offers hesitantly. "At least about this." 

Stiles looks down and sees the switchblade where it has fallen from Amanda's hand. He carefully picks it up, turning it to the side untouched by the Belladonna. He lifts the blade and prepares to run it along his already torn palm. 

Derek reaches out and latches onto his wrist before he can, and Stiles is startled into glancing up. 

"No," Derek says hoarsely. "Use mine." 

He has no idea how Derek has moved that quickly and silently, as injured as he seems to be. He'd buttoned up his father's jacket, but he still looks bare and vulnerable in a way that is making Stiles' heart hurt.

Derek pushes up the sleeve of the jacket to reveal a long cut across his forearm. He grabs Stiles' hand when he hesitates, and traces his fingers along the cut to collect the blood. Stiles twists free, his fingers burning, and swallows hard. "Derek, I—" 

"Now, Stiles," Ms. Morrell interrupts urgently. 

Stiles turns back to Amanda. He reaches out to trace the symbols across her chest, pressing his eyes shut as he believes in them enough to start them flickering. Amanda's hand arches up and grabs at his sleeve, her eyes going wide for a moment before she goes absolutely still. 

"It's done," Ms. Morrell says, sounding satisfied. "She's contained for now." 

His father pulls him away from her the moment he's finished. Stiles lets his dad hold him, but his eyes search for Derek. He finds him standing by the door, refusing to meet his gaze. 

This time when he changes, it's seamless. 

One minute, Derek's there, and the next a wolf is running out of view, leaving his father's jacket lying abandoned in the middle of the hall. "Derek!" Stiles shouts, as he weakly moves to follow. His father pulls him back, and really it's for the best. 

Because if his father had loosened his hold even one bit, Stiles is certain he would have fallen apart.


	19. Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up! I've had it mostly finished since Friday, but I've been fiddling with it ever since until I finally decided I just had to go ahead and bite the bullet and put it up. This was a hard part to write, but we're almost there now! I'm going to try and have the ending up by next weekend, but in the event it ends up unexpectedly long it might take me a few extra days. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me this far!

He doesn't leave until Stiles finally goes to sleep. 

He'd buckled him into the car earlier that night like he hadn't since he was five years old, and Stiles had let him, just staring out the window the whole way home. Ms. Morrell had stayed behind to get rid of the bodies, and part of him had wanted to protest—to call in his men, instead. Except he couldn't think of a thing that he could tell them that would sound remotely true, and he was gaining a new respect for how well Stiles had kept this secret from him. 

He wanted to get Stiles away from Morrell anyway, because he hadn't trusted the way she watched him. She only let them leave once he'd promised her a meeting the next night, but that at least gave him some space to plan. So he'd called Melissa, and Scott, and they were already in the driveway waiting by the time they got home. He'd nodded at Melissa, grateful and sorry all at once, and it was the forgiveness he couldn't give her before.

But he gets it now. 

This is a mad, terrifying world their kids have stumbled into. He can't even stand the thought of Stiles in it alone, so he can't begrudge Melissa's attempt to keep Stiles there for Scott. 

Melissa bandages Stiles' hand and disinfects all the cuts, and checks him for concussion. Stiles didn't want to go to the hospital, though he'd been prepared to drag him there at Melissa's word. Melissa says he's doing well enough considering, that she'll watch him, and she slips Stiles a sedative with his painkillers. 

It's still hard to leave him, even though he's planning to be back before Stiles wakes up. He knows that Scott can protect him and Melissa's never been exactly helpless, and that's not even counting the three werewolves that are patrolling around his property like he's not going _to notice_. 

But he only ever spots the kids. There's no sign of Derek. 

He doesn't know exactly what happened down there, but he knows it wasn't anything good. His heart had nearly stopped when he'd seen Stiles kneeling there, bruised and bloodied and so exhausted he could barely stand. The Sheriff had never seen Derek anything but composed, his expression set in stone and his black clothes surrounding him like armor he doesn't need. It had been shocking to see him naked and streaked with blood beside Stiles, looking vulnerable and so unlike himself. 

So that's how he ends up back at the abandoned rail station at nearly one in the morning, watching Derek stuff his few possessions into a duffle bag. He looks better—there are no marks on his skin, the blood is all gone. He's wearing fresh clothes. He doesn't look like he's been through something traumatic, but if he'd been himself, then he would have felt the Sheriff watching him long before he cleared his throat. 

Derek pauses and glances up, his eyes flashing briefly before he steps closer in a rush. "Stiles?" Derek demands, and the Sheriff must be starting to get him, because on the surface, he's still scowling, but everything about his body language indicates concern.

"He's safe," he says at once. "Home asleep. I'm here because I was worried about you." 

"Me?" Derek says, and he sounds suspicious. 

"Yeah," the Sheriff says. "You look better, though." 

"I'm fine," Derek says shortly. "You didn't have to come." 

"Yeah, well," the Sheriff says, reaching back to rub at his neck. "If Melissa hadn't slipped Stiles a couple sleeping pills I probably would have had to tie him down to keep him from coming here himself. I figure I owe him this. I owe it to you, too." 

"You don't owe me anything," Derek says. "Go back to Stiles." 

"I will, I will," he says slowly, nodding towards the duffle bag. "It's just I was also kind of worried you might be doing something like this." 

"I was never supposed to stay in Beacon Hills," Derek says, glancing away. "I never even wanted to come back." 

"Except you did," the Sheriff says. "Seems a strange time to turn around now." 

"It's what's best for everyone," Derek says stiffly. "And it's not forever. I just…can't be here right now." 

"You can't blame yourself for this," the Sheriff says. "That witch, and the hunters, they were all after Stiles. I can blame you for a lot, but even I can't blame you for this." 

"I couldn't protect him," Derek says, his voices loud enough it echoes slightly through the high, tiled ceilings. He looks surprised at himself, and his expression shutters as his voice goes quiet again. "I should have been able to protect him." 

"It looked to me like that woman that wanted my son dead was taken out with something that had teeth," the Sheriff says. "You saying that wasn't you?" 

"I couldn't get near her until Stiles had bound her power," Derek says in frustration. "And it didn't stop him from getting hurt."

"I seriously doubt my son hangs around with you because he thinks of you as his personal bodyguard," the Sheriff says lightly. "His obsession with Kevin Costner not withstanding." 

Derek lets out a sound that could almost be a laugh, and finally turns back to look at him. "I'm starting to see where Stiles gets his sense of humor," he says. 

"It's that good old Stilinski charm," he says. "We always say the right things at the wrong times. Or the wrong things at the right time. I'm never quite sure." 

Derek nods, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. "You should understand why I have to leave, better than anyone," he says. "I brought him into this, so he's my responsibility. All of them are, and I thought I was helping them, but I was only helping myself." Derek's eyes sink to the floor. "I was trying to build myself a family, and then I nearly got this one killed too." 

"What happened down there?" the Sheriff asks quietly. 

"Stiles was dying," Derek says, looking up again. "I wanted to turn him, but he wouldn't let me. He trapped me in one of the rooms and made a deal with the witch instead." 

"So you're angry with him," the Sheriff says.

"It's not…I'm not—" Derek falters, and he looks exhausted. The Sheriff feels like they should be sitting down for this, but there's really no place here to sit. "It's not _just_ that. I am angry: with him, with myself. And I'm sick of him always doing whatever the hell he wants, no matter what I say. I'm sick of watching him get hurt because of me." 

The Sheriff nods, though Derek doesn't really sound angry to him. He sounds more scared than anything. "Stiles scares the hell out of me on a regular basis," the Sheriff says. "Because I know he'd die for me, or for Scott. For you. That kind of courage isn't very common in a teenage boy, and the dangerous thing about it is there's no way to change him. It's not like it's coming from a lack of self-worth, so he can't be talked out of it in therapy. Stiles always knows exactly what he's doing." 

The Sheriff moves to lean against the wall beside Derek. "And when Stiles wants something, he wants it desperately, borderline obsessive. Thing about him is, though, he's always willing to give up every single thing he wants if it'll save someone he loves." 

Derek doesn't say anything, but he stays where he is, which the Sheriff takes as acknowledgement. "How many people do you know, that would do that?" he asks softly. "Without even thinking about it? This whole thing has been so hard for me to accept, but looking back I can't figure out why I'm surprised. I guess I always figured that feeling I had, that Stiles was different, that he was _special_ , was just the usual parental pride." 

"You're right," Derek says, and pushes away from the wall. "He is special, and that's why I need to leave." 

"You really think that will solve anything?" he asks. 

"You said it yourself, he'd die for me," Derek snaps. "I won't let that happen." 

"And how are you going to stop it, if you're not here?" he demands, moving to follow his steps. "The damage is already done. Stiles already loves you, and he doesn't do it halfway. If you really don't want to hurt him…well, the worst thing you could do to him is leave." 

"Shouldn't you—" Derek starts, before breaking off in frustration.

"What? Be telling you to stay away from him?" the Sheriff asks wryly. "I got so lucky with Stiles, you know. Sure he gets into trouble, he gets hurt, he scares the hell out of me—but he only ever does it for the right reasons. So I trust him, I've always trusted him. And I owe it to him to let him make his own mistakes." 

"But you do think I'm a mistake," Derek says softly. 

"I'm not sure yet," he says honestly. "If he hadn't been trying to help you and Scott, Stiles might have gone his whole life without knowing what power he had inside of him. He could have lived a normal, happy life. Found some steady job and given me grandkids." 

Derek winces almost imperceptibly and the Sheriff sighs. "Or more likely," he continues, "my son was going to stumble headfirst into his power one way or another. And at least this way he's not in it alone."

"I don't think I can do what you want me to," Derek says quietly. "I can't be what he needs, I'm not even sure I'm what he wants." 

"Yes you are," the Sheriff says.

"He's barely seventeen," Derek snaps. "He can't know what he wants." 

"Do you imagine I'd let you near my son, for even a second, if I didn't believe him completely capable of knowing what it is he wants?" the Sheriff asks, his quiet voice laced with steel. "Stiles grew up too fast, I know that. I wish he hadn't, but what's done is done. Talking with him is like navigating a conversation with a five-year-old on a sugar high sometimes, but he's mature beyond his years in all the ways that count." 

"Then maybe he's not what I want," Derek says, setting his jaw and tilting his eyes to meet his defiantly. "I can't trust him. I can't trust any of them. I need people I can trust." 

"Trust isn't really any one thing," the Sheriff says. "Stiles would do anything for you. You have to know that. That's a kind of trust right there. I know you'd do the same for him." 

"Maybe that's not enough," Derek says. 

"Stiles never really talks about his mother, does he?" the Sheriff asks, sticking his hands in his pockets and walking alongside the rail car. He says it casually, just slipping it in, even though Derek must hear the stutter in his heart. "That's probably my fault." 

"Sheriff, I don't—" Derek starts. 

He ignores him. "She taught me so much, I really should do her justice by talking about her. It's just I've been so selfish, wanting to keep her to myself." He stops to look inside one of the cars. There's a few cots inside, dressed with superhero sheets he remembers boxing and putting in the attic when Stiles claimed he was too old. "It hurts sometimes, just to look at Stiles, he's so much like her." 

"You don't need to," Derek says, sounding unsure. "I understand not wanting to talk about it." 

"I've done more damage not talking about it than anything else," he says. "I want to tell you a story." The Sheriff takes a deep breath, moving his eyes down to his feet. "When we were about to get married, her ex came around and started causing trouble. I didn't know about it at the time. She was barely 110 pounds soaking wet, but she wanted to handle it alone. She didn't want me involved. Never mind that I was a deputy, and dealing with stuff like that was my job." 

"What happened?" Derek asks quietly.

"She kicked his ass and got him to leave town for good, but she ended up walking down the aisle with a black eye," the Sheriff says fondly, shaking his head, "I was so angry with her, that she would take a risk like that. I almost called off the wedding. I thought she didn't trust me, I thought I couldn't trust her." 

Derek leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. "What changed your mind?" he asks, his tone almost wistful, like he's expecting some answer that will solve everything. 

"She told me she was sorry, and then she said she'd do it all again," the Sheriff snorts. 

Derek glances up in disbelief. "And that changed your mind?" he demands. 

"It changed my perspective," the Sheriff says. "She was just being honest—I don't think I would have really believed her, if she'd promised never to do something like that again. Because she wasn't ever going to change, and once I realized that, I figured out I didn't really want her to. I fell in love with her as she was, flaws and all. We still have the picture hanging up in my bedroom of our wedding day. Me in a tux, her in her gorgeous white dress, smiling just as wide as she could with a huge bruise stretched half down her face. She refused to even put make-up on it. She called it a spoil of war." 

Derek just watches him, his face expressionless, and the Sheriff wonders for the first time what it would be like to be a werewolf. To be able to use senses other than sight to try and decipher a person, to try and find out what makes them tick. 

But he only has his eyes, and Derek gives nothing away. 

"So that part of Stiles, that part of him that will do crazy, ridiculously reckless things with all the best intentions, that's his mother," the Sheriff says quietly. "That's why I let him get away with as much as I do. I feel like if I squashed it out of him, she'd really be gone. And so would he." 

"It's not…that easy for me," Derek says finally. "I can't just flip a switch and everything's okay again. I'm not sure it ever was." 

"No, of course not," he says. "But you can't outrun it either." 

Derek's expression sets, his jaw practically clicking into place as he looks up defiantly. "Look, I'm not here to tell you what to do, Derek," the Sheriff says. "I learned a long time ago I can't fix all of Stiles' problems for him, that I can't always keep the people he loves in his life. People die, people leave—it's something you both learned too young.

"So if you want to run, I won't stop you. But if you do decide to stick around, I thought you'd like to know that Morrell has demanded we meet to discuss Stiles' future. She's planning to take my son away from me." 

Derek's head shoots up, his eyes flashing red, though his expression doesn't change.

"I don't know about you," the Sheriff says, as he turns towards the stairs, "but I've got no intention of letting that happen." 

As the Sheriff pushes out through the doors, he hears something slam against the wall hard enough that the ground shudders beneath his feet. But he doesn't look back.

He's always known this is one thing he can't protect Stiles from, and it's something Derek's going to have to figure out on his own. 

You never can choose who you love.


	20. The Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is finally finished! Thank you all for sticking with me through this. It didn't end up being quite what I'd planned, but I certainly enjoyed the ride. A third story is looking a bit unlikely at the moment, because I'm afraid I might burn out before I finish if I start it now. But I never say never, and so I'm leaving the series open for now! I have a couple ideas for a few shorter stories within this verse I might end up playing with as well. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! I've been agonizing over this part the last couple of days, but I finally decided I had to post it or I'd just keep fiddling with it until I drove myself mad.

Stiles' palm, when he unwraps the bandages, is healed over. 

There's a scar, imprinted on his skin like a stamp with the very same geometric design of the stone, but it doesn't exactly hurt. The rest of his cuts and bruises haven't healed at all, but he'd downed twice his usual dose of Adderall instead of taking anything for the pain. 

He knows he needs the energy and focus it will bring if he's going to make his escape. He glances at the leather jacket that's laying in a pile on his floor, but after a moment's hesitation, he grabs his blue hoodie instead and heads for the stairs. He doesn't deserve the advantage it might give him in the battle that's to come.

He doesn't remember much after his father had led him out of that bunker. He vaguely recalls Melissa talking to him as she checked him over, in that tone of voice she hasn't used on him since his mother's death. Then she'd given him something, he's certain, because he remembers nothing else.

Melissa had been gone when he woke up, but his father has refused to leave him alone all day. Stiles had only gotten this brief moment to himself after he'd told his father he was hungry, and the lie eats away at him, but he knows his father would never let him go. Stiles doesn't even want to think about how mad he's going to be when he finds out he's slipped out, but he can't sit locked up in the house anymore. 

His father said he went to see Derek, that he was doing okay, but Stiles has to see it for himself. 

He gently makes his way down the stairs, wincing as his various cuts pull strangely at his skin, and then creeps over the door. He swings it open, and then there's Scott. 

Scott looks startled at first, his mouth opening for a moment, before he snaps it closed again and his expression turns sheepish. Stiles curses. "You've got to be kidding me," he says. 

"Sorry," Scott says. "My mom made me promise I'd keep you here. I'm kind of terrified of what she'll do to me if I don't follow through." 

"You turncoat," Stiles says indignantly.

Scott looks down at himself with a frown. "I'm not even wearing a coat," he protests. 

Stiles groans and slams the door in his face, before leaning up against it. He drags in one breath after another, fighting down a panic attack. 

"Stiles!" his father yells, and then he's pulling him away from the door and into the living room. His guiding grip is gentle despite the harshness of his voice, and Stiles just winces as he's forced to sit down on the couch. "Breathe. Hey, look at me, come on." 

Stiles sucks in a deep breath and nods, glancing up at his father. "I'm fine, really, I'm super," he says. "I was just getting some air." 

His dad raises an eyebrow. "Sure," he says. "You know, there's air in here." 

"I just need to talk to him, okay?" Stiles says, and he hates how desperate he sounds, and even more than that he hates the way it makes his father flinch like he's been hit. Even when he's trying to do the right thing, someone always ends up hurt. 

"I told you, he's fine," his father says. "Everything's going to be fine." 

"It's not though, not even a little. You don't understand," Stiles insists. "I know things are bad when he doesn't even come creeping through my window to yell at me." 

"That's—" his dad grimaces. "He does that?" 

"What?" Stiles asks, his eyes widening. "No. No! Of course not. That's totally just a figure of speech, it's like, slang, like call me maybe." His father just raises an eyebrow, and Stiles drops his head into his hands and groans. "Crap." 

"You're lucky we've both got bigger things to worry about right now," his dad says. "We have to meet Morrell in a couple of hours. Why don't you try to get some more sleep?" 

"I can't sleep, I can't do anything. I think I screwed it up for good this time," Stiles says. "I just need—I have to talk to him, to try and explain—" 

His father's expression goes blank, and he shakes his head. "This isn't up for debate," he says. "You're not going anywhere." 

"Dad, please," Stiles says. 

"Once we get this all figured out, I'll drive you to see him myself," his father says gently. "But I'm not letting you out of my sight until then. Derek will either understand that or he won't, but that's what's going to happen. Are we clear?" 

"Yes," Stiles sighs. 

His father pats him on the knee before getting to his feet. "Sometimes the best thing you can do is give someone their space," he says. 

"I don't really do space, it's not my strong suit," Stiles says. "I need to talk to him to make this better. Talking is like my superpower." 

"Yeah, well, you've kinda got actual superpowers now, kid," he reminds him. "And they take precedence." 

"But everything's already worked out!" Stiles protests. "Jackson and Lydia are out of the slammer, the last living Lancre is cooling his heels in lock-up for a sordid assortment of crimes, and okay, so my guidance counselor killed my chemistry teacher, and that's not okay, but the hunter's being charged with that too, right? I mean, that's about as neat as things can get tied up these days." 

"Except Morrell, like you said, is a killer," his father reminds him. "And because of me she's going free. And not only that, but she's planning to take you with her." 

"Yes, well, that's sweet of her and all, and she is some sort of sexy Mrs. McGonagall," Stiles says. "But I already drafted a letter informing her that I will regrettably be unable to attend Hogwarts this year." 

"This isn't a joke, Stiles," his dad snaps. "I just almost lost you, and if even half of what she's said is true, this was only the beginning. And I don't think we're prepared enough to handle it alone." 

"You think I should go with her?" Stiles asks slowly, looking up at his father in disbelief. 

"No, of course not," his dad says, running a hand through his hair. "But, Stiles, you told me you brought that house down. You told me yourself that your power got out of your control, that you weren't yourself, and I just want to make sure that doesn't happen again." 

"Deaton already said he'd help me," Stiles says. "Right here in Beacon Hills, so I don't have to leave." 

"But can we trust him?" his dad asks. "He's the one that sent me to meet up with Morrell." 

"And she helped us out, right?" Stiles asks. "Deaton's got mysterious down even better than Derek, but he's never done anything against us, and he hasn't even fired Scott yet, even though he's like, the worst employee ever, so he's got that going for him." 

His father nods reluctantly. "Well, he's said he'll meet us there when we go to see Morrell," he says. "So I guess we'll find out." His father reaches out to run a hand affectionately over Stiles' head, before starting back towards the kitchen. "I'll go finish our food. But, Stiles? I wouldn't recommend trying the back door. Melissa's guarding that one." 

Stiles groans and falls down to lay on the couch. Even with the Adderall pumping through his veins, he feels exhausted at a level he isn't used to. It's like someone's reached inside of him and ripped his energy from him, tugged it out bit by bit even from the bone. 

He only means to close his eyes for a moment, but the next thing he knows his father is gently shaking him awake and telling him it's time to go. He glances out the windows and somehow it's already dark. Stiles lets his father pull him up and docilely lets him lead him to the door. 

Melissa stays at the house, but Scott insists on coming with them. Stiles is jittery the whole drive. The Sheriff's car is familiar but unfamiliar at the same time, too smooth of a ride from what he's used to, and Scott is making jokes about being locked in the back that Stiles can't find the words to return. 

He bites nervously at one of his fingernails as his father comes to a stop outside the Hale Estate. His jeep is still there, looking a little worse for the wear, but the house is pretty much kindling. 

Not that it had been much to look at before, but it was still the last thing Derek had of his family. 

And he'd taken it away from him. 

His father lets Scott out and then comes around to tug Stiles out of the car, watching him with concern. Stiles smiles as he pulls his strength around him, taking all of his Adderall reserves and the magic that's just beginning to thrum back through him and wrapping it around him like a shield. 

He knows he can't afford to show weakness now. 

Deaton is standing beside the wreckage of the house, looking serenely uninterested whilst he catalogues every single detail of it away. He glances over at them and frowns when he sees them. "I thought you would have brought the others," he says, eyes glancing towards Scott before returning towards his father. "You're going to need all the help you can get." 

"I was under the impression Morrell had an offer for us," his father says. "By which I had assumed we were within our rights to turn it down." 

"She can be very convincing," Deaton says flatly, and gives a slight shrug. "She does mean well. Perhaps—" 

"Uh, I think she's here," Scott says, hitting Stiles on the arm until Stiles turns. 

Stiles fights down a chill as he watches her approach. He can feel something rippling over his skin that's reminiscent of an electric shock, just like what he'd felt when he first encountered Amanda. He doesn't remember Ms. Morrell having this much power, but then he realizes it's not coming from her. 

Two people are following her, a few paces behind on either side. Their eyes are glowing slightly, whitish like they've been turned round the wrong way. One is a woman, and one is a man, and both of them look to be in their late thirties. Their empty eyes just stare straight through him, their steps eerily synchronized. He swallows hard and Ms. Morrell smiles coyly. 

She comes to a stop in front of him, and the others stop behind her. Their hair looks windblown, but it's not following the right current. Their strangeness just highlights Ms. Morrell's seemingly innocent appearance even more, and it sets him on edge. 

"I see you've brought the Pips with you," Stiles says. 

"Stiles, what—" his father whispers quickly, his hand reaching out to grip Stiles' arm.

Ms. Morrell's smile slips. "You can see them," she says in surprise. 

"Of course I can see—" Stiles breaks off as he catches sight of his father's confused expression, and the open-mouthed bemusement on Scott's face. He sighs heavily. "I'm the only one that can see them, aren't I?" 

"Yes," Ms. Morrell says, looking unsettled. "And you shouldn't be able to." 

There's a strange flicker in Deaton's expression beside him, and it's notable for the rarity of Deaton giving a reaction to anything at all, but Stiles still can't decipher what it means. 

"So long as you don't cause trouble, they are here as observers only," Ms. Morrell assures them, though her curious eyes stay pinned on Stiles. "Even I cannot see them."

"Right," Stiles says. "So what? Are they on a 'higher plane' or something? Ascended? White-lighters, maybe? Willow on a power high? Pick your nineties fantasy." 

"Isn't it curious, how often you stumble onto the truth?" she asks wryly. 

"Seriously?" Stiles asks. "They're on another plane?" 

"Or close enough," she says. "And the fact that you can see them, well, it means you could probably reach it yourself." 

His father's grip tightens even further, like he's afraid Stiles is going to walk straight off the edge of the world. "Thanks, but no thanks," Stiles says. "I've got enough trouble managing just this reality." 

"I don't think you realize what it is you're turning down," she says. 

"You're offering me a spot at Xavier's School For Gifted Children," Stiles says. "I'm flattered, but I've got other plans." 

"It is a school, actually," Ms. Morrell agrees. "With students that have the same powers as you. We're based in New York right now, and I know that it might seem like a long way to go, but I promise it will feel more like home than this place ever has." 

"Yeah, like I said," Stiles says. 

"We could teach you, Stiles," Morrell says. "And we can protect you. Both from others, and from yourself." 

"I've already got a teacher," Stiles says. "Deaton agreed a long time ago to help me." 

Ms. Morrell's expression goes blank. "I'm sorry," she says. "But that's not good enough." Her eyes flicker over to Deaton. "Alan, you know the respect I have for you. But we both know you're not strong enough to keep him in check." 

"I, however, am," someone says. 

Stiles spins around and watches in disbelief as Peter creeps out of the shadows. He's dressed like he's just walked out of an issue of GQ, his hands in the pockets of a long peacoat and his fancy dress shoes somehow untouched by the damp ground around them. 

His father uses the grip on his arm to tug him a few steps away, while Deaton and Scott part warily to the other side. Peter walks between them without looking at any of them; his strange, knowing smile, only for Ms. Morrell.

Stiles watches as her confidence seems to shatter, before she stitches it hastily back together in a way that doesn't even fool him, let alone Peter. 

"I'd heard you were dead," she says. 

"Mmm, yes," Peter says. "And now I'm doing much better." 

Stiles can feel all of the power around him thrum as Ms. Morrell gathers her forces together, but there's a dark thread already running beneath it—a steady and slippery vein, snaking tightly around them all. _Our magic is as unique as we are_ , Amanda had said. 

And Stiles would know Peter anywhere. 

"If I'd known you were alive—" Ms. Morrell snaps. 

"You would have sent the hunters after me, instead?" Peter interrupts, his tone sickly sweet. "You have told them that you and the lovely Amanda go way back, I'm sure." Peter glances sideways at Stiles' father's grim expression, and Stiles' fingers twitch at the revelation. Peter just grins. "Oh, my mistake." 

"Amanda went her own way a very long time ago," Ms. Morrell says. "She hasn't been in my coven since before we last met." 

"Perhaps, but you certainly knew that she was here, and leading the hunters straight to Stiles. There's no way you couldn't have, you're far too good at your job," Peter says, before leaning forward, his eyes sparkling just this side of mad. "Whether you allowed it so you could rush to his rescue, or because you were hoping they'd solve this little problem for you, remains to be seen." 

Ms. Morrell gives a tight smile. "Imaginative as ever, Peter," she says. "I'm only trying to protect him." 

"That's a little like a Starling trying to protect a Falcon, don't you think?" Peter asks. "You don't have a fraction of his potential." 

"And you think you're a fit teacher?" she demands, her voice sounds rough around the edges, like fear masquerading as anger. 

"Absolutely," Peter says at once. "You can't imagine the things that I might teach him." 

"If you think I'd leave Stiles alone with you," Ms. Morrell snarls, "you're even more out of your mind than I first assumed." 

Stiles is just about to protest, when a voice speaks up from behind him: 

"Who said he was alone?" 

Stiles presses his eyes closed for a moment, letting the voice wrap around him, steadying him in a way that should probably concern him—snapping his own power into focus with a clarity he's never felt before now. He glances back and Derek is standing at the tree line, wearing nothing but jeans and sneakers, and one of his dark grey Henley shirts. He looks fully human, but his eyes shine red every time the moonlight glances off them just right.

Erica and Isaac are on either side of Derek, though they move off in opposite directions, fanning out in a wide circle around them. Stiles glances back and that's when he sees the rest of them. Chris and Allison are to his left, Chris has a double-barrel shotgun casually resting on his shoulder, while Allison calmly lefts her crossbow to steady her aim. Jackson and Lydia are to his right, Jackson's fists clenched and his eyes flashing, while Lydia delicately holds a bottle that looks worryingly like a Molotov Cocktail the way one might hold a glass of champagne. Boyd is standing some twenty feet behind Morrell, one clenched fist resting in the palm of his other hand. 

Stiles breath catches in his throat, his heart speeding up to a rate he knows the wolves around him must pick up on. He gently slips out of his father's grip and moves to face Ms. Morrell. 

"I never thought I'd be saying this, but if these are my choices, then I choose Peter," he tells her. "He may be a psychopath, but at least he's our psychopath." 

"Thank you, Stiles," Peter says, looking inordinately pleased.

Ms. Morrell looks furious. She moves to step forward, but the observers both reach out at the same time, each of them grabbing one of her wrists. Her expression turns stony, but she lets them hold her back. 

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind?" she asks, after a moment. 

"You said that I could find a home at that school, a place to fit in," Stiles says. "But what you don't seem to realize is that I already have that here. I'm not going anywhere." 

"A witch in a wolf pack," she says, her lips twitching upwards into a smirk. "It's so crazy it might even work." Ms. Morrell nods slightly at Deaton, her eyes glancing off Peter without acknowledging him, before turning back to Stiles. 

"Still, the offer's open, Stiles, just like always," she tells him, smiling that strange little half-smile that she'd always given him at the end of a session. She steps backwards, as the two witches behind her turn and disappear. "Any time you want to talk." 

Ms. Morrell has barely disappeared into the trees and Lydia is crashing into Stiles, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as she throws herself against him. Stiles catches her in surprise. He meets Jackson's gaze over her shoulder and he gives a quick nod of acknowledgement, raising the Molotov Cocktail Lydia had obviously left in his care like he's giving a toast.

Lydia has barely stepped away and Stiles is surrounded by the rest of the pack, except for Derek, who only watches from where he first appeared. Isaac pats him on the back, and Erica punches him on the arm hard enough he's probably going to bruise. Allison winds her hand together with Scott's and leans up against him, but smiles at him with a sincerity he hasn't seen from her in awhile. 

Strangely, Boyd's the one that speaks. "Glad you're not dead," he says. 

"Yeah," Erica says, tossing him a sharp grin. "Though I can't believe you didn't want to learn to be an X-Man." 

"Please," Lydia says, with a roll of her eyes. "If we're going to be assigning it some lame fictional equivalent, it probably has more resemblance to River's school in _Firefly_. I wouldn't trust Morrell an inch." 

Stiles looks at her with wide eyes. "I'm so glad I didn't know you watched _Firefly_ when I was still obsessed with you," he says. "I probably would have built you a shrine." 

Lydia grins sweetly. "I thought it was mediocre at best," she says. 

"And now I wish I didn't know you at all," Stiles tells her. 

"That's enough, children," Peter says, tilting his head unsubtly in Derek's direction. Derek stands expressionless, but Stiles can almost choke on the tension that clouds the space between them, and the rest of the pack seems to think retreat sounds like a good idea. 

The pack is disappearing with waves and farewells before Stiles can protest. Scott heads off with Allison while Deaton takes off for his car with a nod. Then it's just him standing there with his father, with Derek watching them silently from far too far away. 

"I'll just be…at the car," his father says reluctantly. 

Stiles bites his lip, turning to look at Derek for a moment before returning his gaze to his father. "Actually, I was thinking I should—" 

"You want to stay," he sighs. "Stiles, I don't think—" 

"I'll be fine, dad," Stiles says. "I promise. But this is something you have to let me do on my own." 

"When did you get to be so grown up?" he asks sadly. "I'll go, but you have to stay with Derek, do you hear me?" 

"Yeah, and it's pretty hilarious," Stiles says. "You do realize you're insisting I spend time with my older boyfriend." 

"Yes, well, you've only got until one," his dad tells him. "You better not be late, either. You don't want me coming to find you, because I will." 

"I think you've proven that," Stiles says, grinning wryly. "Some day I want to hear the story of how you tracked us down." 

"Just boring old police work," his father says, grinning slightly as he starts for his car. 

"Uh huh," Stiles says in disbelief, fighting the urge to call his father back. 

Because the moment he's gone, there's nothing between him and Derek. 

Derek doesn't move towards him even once they're alone. He just stands there watching, his expression shuttered, and it reminds Stiles of the day they met. Stiles knows better than to take Derek's appearance here as forgiveness—despite the reputation he seems to like to create around himself, as long as Stiles has known him Derek's really only ever tried to do good. 

He hasn't always gone about it in the right way, but he never had bad intentions. Derek would have come here to try and save him regardless of whether or not he could forgive him. 

Stiles watches him for a moment, and then he marches purposely towards him. He can feel the level of clarity he's gained over his magic sharpen even further the closer to Derek that he gets. It's like the magic has found the sort of balance with Derek that he's been trying to get for himself. 

Derek meets his eyes steadily as he stops a few feet in front of him, but his lips are pressed tightly together, and he's obviously expecting Stiles to throw the first verbal volley. Stiles briefly sorts through his varied options: everything from 'hi' to falling to his knees to beg for forgiveness, but in the end none of that's really his style. 

"So…" he says, drawing out the word, and rocking back a little on his heels. "Did I just agree to become a Sith Lord?" 

Derek blinks at him and for a moment Stiles wonders if he's going to break first, and say what's really on his mind. Stiles should have known better—as good as Stiles is at saying nothing with a hundred empty words, Derek has mastered the art of subtext through using just a handful of them. 

"I won't let Peter hurt you," he says seriously. His tone is both reassuring and sort of impersonal, and it pisses Stiles off. 

"Why is that?" Stiles asks. 

"Stiles," Derek starts. 

"No, I’m actually asking," Stiles says. "Is it because that's just the sort of upstanding werewolf that you are, or is it because you don't want me hurt?" 

"I'm not doing this with you now," Derek says, and with that he turns and starts walking away again. 

This time there's no one there to keep Stiles from chasing after him, so he starts right on his heels. "It's a fair question," he insists. 

"It's really not," Derek snarls, glancing behind him for only a moment before turning his gaze ahead. 

Stiles sees the Camaro through the trees, haphazardly parked on the back road behind the house, and his heart stutters for a moment at the thought of Derek getting in and driving out of reach. Derek pulls to a halt in front of him, pulled to a stop by the sound of his distress, though he still doesn't turn around. 

"I'm sorry that I destroyed your house," Stiles says quietly. 

Derek barks out a strange laugh, but he turns around, so Stiles counts it as a win. "Really? That's what you're going to apologize for?" he asks.

"Okay," Stiles says, and steps forward. "I'm sorry for a lot of things." 

"Yeah, me too," Derek says. "But it never seems to matter, does it? Because nothing ever seems to change." 

"If you'd only let me make my own decisions in the first place," Stiles starts. 

"So now you're blaming me?" Derek demands, as he stalks forward until they're just inches apart. 

"That's not what I meant." Stiles swallows and shakes his head, but he doesn't back down. "It's just, you don't get to take all the risks all the time. We're never going to agree on everything. So we can either learn to work together or we can keep fighting until it kills us. And with our lives, it just might." 

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Derek says. 

"So then what's your plan here?" Stiles asks. "We go back to what we were before? You only show up when you're nearly dead, or need me to look something up because you can rebuild an actual engine blindfolded but still can't figure out how to work a search engine and what…I'm just supposed to go along with it, I'm just supposed to let you pretend that none of this ever happened?" 

"I'd never try to tell you what to do, Stiles, I'm not that stupid," Derek says. "So do what you want." 

Derek moves to the car, angrily reaching for the door, and Stiles watches him uncertainly for all of three seconds before surging forward to face him. He's never been able to give in easily—it's sort of a character flaw. 

"I get it, okay, I screwed up! But don't act like you have the high ground here," Stiles yells, "How many times have you tried to solve something without me? How many times have you told me to run or pushed me aside or done whatever the hell you wanted no matter what I thought? That's how we work, Derek! I'm not going to just back down when someone I care about is in trouble." 

"You shut me out," Derek snarls, turning to face him, his eyes flashing red. Stiles stares back at him, standing his ground. "You don't get to do that." 

"But you do?" Stiles demands. 

"I'm—" Derek starts, before trailing off. 

"You're not invincible," Stiles says. "Just because you'd heal from stuff that I won't, it doesn't mean you get to be the only one in the line of fire. A bullet filled with wolfsbane can as easily kill you as it could me." 

"But people will miss you!" Derek shouts. "You can't do that—you can't die, because I can't…" 

"You think I can?" Stiles asks. "You think what? I'd just move on? The pack would just get over it? Is that what you think?" 

"Stiles," Derek says in frustration. 

"No," Stiles interrupts, twisting his fists into the material of Derek's shirt and sending them both crashing into the side of the car. It makes for a rather strange reversal, and Stiles knows he only manages because Derek allows it. "You think the problem is that you're not worth anything. That's not the problem, because it isn't true. The problem is that's _what you think_." 

"I didn't say I wasn't worth anything, I'm just not worth as much as you," Derek says, hesitantly wrapping one hand around Stiles' neck. "So you can't die for me, Stiles, because I wouldn't survive it." 

Then Derek lowers his hands to grasp Stiles', and slowly pries them off his shirt. He turns and opens the car door. "Just get in the car, okay?" he asks quietly. "Your father will kill me if I don't get you home." 

Stiles can feel him slipping away, it's like Derek is putting all the old barriers back up around him again—and that's when he knows what he has to do.

He knows they're not quite equals, despite how much he's fought to be. There's always been too much space between them to put them on the same level, no matter which way you work it. Stiles has spent so much time focusing on his side of the human-werewolf divide that it's never really occurred to him how hard it must be on Derek's. 

They're unequal that way too. Derek has shared, if not quite willingly, what he is with Stiles. He's entrusted this secret to him and it's always been in Stiles' hands. Stiles has worked his ass off for the pack but he's never made the same sort of sacrifices that Derek has. He's never had to change himself to be with Derek, because Derek changed to be with him. 

So maybe it's his turn. 

"Bite me," he blurts out, and Derek freezes at the door. One hand clenches around the edge, and Stiles can hear the sound of the metal distorting slightly beneath his hand. 

"What?" Derek asks quietly.

Stiles takes a deep breath and steels himself, before tilting back his head. "I said bite me. Not in the modern slang sense of 'screw you,'" he explains quickly. "I mean literally. I literally want you to bite me." 

Derek turns to face him. "You don't mean that," he says, and even though he's scowling his voice wavers. 

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," Stiles insists. "I'm healed now, so this is probably the best time to try. And if this is what it's going to take to convince you that I love you, that I'm not going to leave without a fight, then it's a small price to pay." 

"Stiles," Derek snaps. "That's no reason to ask for this." 

"Of course it is," Stiles protests. "It's a better reason than just wanting to cheat death, or because I have no other choice. I want to do this because I want to be with you, and I can't think of a better reason than that. I want to be with you, Derek, and this is the only way I can think of to prove it to you."

"You don't want it," Derek says gently. "You never have." 

"I want you," Stiles says. 

"You would really do that?" Derek asks after a moment, and he's staring at him like he's never seen him before. 

"I've never hated what you are," Stiles says quickly. "It isn't something I thought I wanted, but maybe Peter was right all along. Maybe I've been lying to myself." 

"I always wanted you to ask," Derek says. "I always thought that we needed this." 

Stiles nods, because he gets that now. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't do it before. I should have listened to you." 

"And if you had, you might have died," Derek says, and suddenly he's moving. 

Stiles lets out a startled gasp as Derek spins them around until it's Stiles that's pressed up against the side of the car. Derek lifts him up until he's sitting on the hood, and then he presses up between his legs. Derek frowns down at him, and he looks torn between holding onto his anger and kissing him senseless. 

"I said that I wanted you to _ask_ ," Derek says. "But I don't think I realized until just now that it's not something I need. You don't owe me anything. I just wanted to fix you, and that was the only way I knew how. I'm not like you, Stiles. I can't look at a situation and figure out all the angles. All I knew was I had to save you." 

"You did. You did save me," Stiles says. "You pulled her off me, broke our connection to the stone, and I don't think you should have been able to do that." 

Stiles holds out one of his hands, and Derek frowns down at the scar there. He takes it into his own, and traces his fingers around the edges. "Does it hurt?" he asks gruffly. 

"No," he says, with a shake of his head. He looks back up at Derek. "But, Derek, I think we're connected now." 

"What, you think I really am your familiar?" Derek asks dryly, giving him a tight grin. 

"No, but there's something there, isn't there?" Stiles asks. "I think it always has been, and I just couldn't see it until now." 

"It's the pack bond," Derek says, after a moment's hesitation. "Humans can always become pack, but it's usually only werewolves that can feel it." 

"It all came together tonight," Stiles realizes. "Tonight we became a pack, officially." 

"Yes," Derek agrees. 

"And that was your plan," Stiles says. "That's why you came here tonight. You knew if we all stood together, Ms. Morrell would have to leave." 

"Yes," Derek says again. 

"But it's stronger with you than anyone else," Stiles says. "Is that because you're the Alpha?" 

"It's because our bond is a bit different," Derek explains reluctantly, and his hands move down to rest at Stiles' hips. "It's because you're not just pack to me. Not anymore."

"Right," Stiles nods thoughtfully. "Then isn't it a little late for you to be running away?" 

Derek doesn't exactly answer, he just leans forward and captures Stiles' lips. Stiles lets him melt against him until he finally has to pull back to gasp in a breath. He meets Derek's eyes and he can feel the bond so clearly now, all bound up in his own magic, and he wonders if they could break it even if they tried. 

"I meant what I said, you know," he whispers. "You can bite me if you want." 

Derek leans in slowly, his eyes flashing red, and kisses him instead.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Притяжение луны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454176) by [Viviena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viviena/pseuds/Viviena)




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